What I would have
by Anduniel
Summary: DF, all canon, all books. This story is meant to explain the actions of Denethor in the LotRs. More action, Denethor is his charming self - content is a bit violent.
1. Default Chapter

What I would have

Summary: An account of the days of Denethor's youth, centering on his relationship with Finduilas and a proposed reason for his apparent dislike of Faramir. Based on readings from The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, Lost Tales and Unfinished Tales. 

Disclaimer: The places, situations and characters contained herein belong to the Tolkien Estate. This work contains no original characters. No money is being made from this work. This writing is in no way related to or a reflection of anything produced by New Line Cinema. 

Rating: PG13 for adult situations- mentions of war, combustion, violence and infidelity.

Denethor II was born on a mean winter morning. The weather had turned into an icy rain, and the city itself grieved for a recent loss of several companies due to attacks from the Haradrim in the Southern fiefs. Much sorrow was mingled with the joy of that day, and so was the life of Denethor ever tempered. He was a solemn child, and quite unlike his father Ecthelion II. He had two older sisters who were fine children and grew into fine ladies. They were quick to sorrow and grieve, bold and swift. Even under the shadow they seemed to dance with joy, as the children of men from the early years. Denethor was an odd child from infancy. His hair was darker than his sisters, and his infant eyes, which opened immediately, were almost silver. As a child he seldom cried, and as a small boy he preferred to play alone. Despite the fact that he spurned companionship, he was over-cautious of perceived mockery, and had a strange pride for one so young. When his older sister Morwen laughed to see him playing with his toy soldiers, he resolved to have nothing more to do with them and threw them into the hearth.

Denethor was in spirit more like to his mother Idril, and he preferred her company. She taught him much of how to read the hearts of men, and the power to be gained from knowing the cares and desires of one's peers- friend or foe. Ecthelion also cherished knowledge, but his was the love of songs of old, while Denethor learned like his mother to glean the value of all learning before him. The songs of valor did little to stir his heart even as a child. He would sit and listen but remain in features unmoved, by victory or defeat. Only when the tactics involved were mentioned, or the numbers of troops, or locations in which great battles were fought did his eyes gleam. He loved descriptions of strategy, especially that of Turin II his forefather. Denethor valued his role as future Steward above all else, and he disliked old tales of fancy and other 'distractions.' His mother likewise was stern of mind and purpose, and she promoted ever the thought in his mind that he alone would one day stand between the West and The Shadow. 

Ecthelion frowned that his son should be so serious, but they sparred together often, and were close in this way. For Denethor was a strong child and his father showed him many tricks of swordplay. At a young age Denethor delighted in learning new moves with his wooden sword, and his joy would be when he could outmaneuver his opponent at arms. The greatest joy of all was when he would outmaneuver his father, though the latter was swift and strong, and the former but a boy. Denethor would then glance a blow upon his sire and the man would lift him into the air with wonderful strength. Held in the air between bulging muscles, Denethor would smile and Ecthelion would laugh and say, "Steel matters little compared to the mind that directs it." And almost always he would add, "When the strength of your body matches the will behind your blows, then you will be great indeed." 

Yet as Denethor grew it became apparent that he would never match the great strength of his father. He was tall and gaunt, and because he could measure himself almost as well as he measured others, he was quick to realize it. Then was he downcast and his mother, perceiving his sorrow, took him to the walls of the city.

There she looked long at him and said, "Little value must I have in your eyes! For all but the meanest of men could over power me."

And Denethor was troubled and replied that it was not so. 

 "I would not have your pity my son. I taught you to read the hearts of men for purposes other than to comfort your mother," his mother smiled grimly and replied, "Yet look below!"

Denethor looked out upon the city and replied, "I see many things mother, yet not what you would have me see."

And she said, "look upon the waters of the river, my son. Think you that they are strong? Are the mountains not tall and proud? Are they of great value?"

Denethor then replied, "the mountains protect our city, as does the river, but neither is solely our friend and both at times they take men from us."

"And what of the wind- for it bends earth and water alike, but surely all are stronger than man?"

"They are, mother."

"But do not men harness the river, and make it to serve them? Because we have knowledge and will, all these serve us."

Then Denethor looked upon them, and his face became less troubled but more stern. And his mother looked fondly at him and asked, "You find no comfort in this?"

The boy then looked up at her and said, "I do, but now I find I have much to learn, more even than I had thought."

From that day on young Denethor rose early to read what he could before breakfast. When he was finished with his lessons he would sit in the main hall and listen to the embassies and reports that came to his grandfather. Often Turgon would dismiss his counsel to find Denethor nodding in a chair in the corner. There were times when Ecthelion would return late from the field and glance into his son's room to find the bed cold and unoccupied. Upon searching he would find him in some obscure chamber in the hall of records. Denethor, with his small dark head resting on his hands and a candle sputtering fitfully by his side, would look startled to see his sire. Ecthelion would give him a strange look and send the boy off to bed. If he had known his son could perceive his sorrow he might have assuaged the boy's fears, but Ecthelion himself did not know how to explain what he felt at those moments. To him his son was still a child, and he wanted his child to be a boy like his father, not this studious stranger that looked up at him with an old man's eyes. Denethor perceived only that his father was grieved with his son's behavior, and he worked all the harder to that he might please Ecthelion. 

*                                              *                                              *

Thus was the spirit of Denethor formed, and it grew unguarded and untempered, for he had none of his caliber to guide his tender years. He came upon much knowledge early, and it gave him contempt for those who were without, and little trust in the learning of others. He saw less of his mother as he grew, for he entered the soldiery of Gondor, and saw little of life in the court. He felt no need to keep close to the policies of his lords, for he read men thoroughly and Idril was a formidable woman. He saw little even of his father, for Ecthelion was soon to take the rod of office and was engrossed in learning what his father could still teach him. Denethor spent the last days of his boyhood leading the life of a soldier. He slew his first orc with an arrow when he was a tender sixteen years of age, and a week later his company fought a vicious battle with a renegade band of Easterlings. His commander often recalled with awe how the youth, his blade smoking with hot blood, had calmly looked upon the carnage. His fellows were often dismayed by how calmly he slew man or orc, and how little it seemed to matter the conditions of the field or the strength of the foe. Denethor's eyes stayed cool and thoughtful and neither hardship nor ease did much to change his demeanor.

Ecthelion often thought it was a pity that his son had not known his great grandsire Turin, for Turin II was a clever strategist, and Denethor read the scrolls of his campaigns with great interest. His great grandfather fought the battle of Ithilien at the river Poros, but Denethor studied instead the fortification of Cair Andros and the building of Henneth Annun and many outposts like it. Both father and son served in the army of Turgon, but the old steward often gave commands for retreat, and he seemed of small account for those of Numenorean descent. Yet he lost little land, and preserved much. This lesson, like all others involving strategy, was not lost upon Denethor.

*                                              *                                              *

Denethor had grown fair to look upon, noble in mind, tall and stern. He was the image of his forefathers of old; indeed many saw the likeness of Elendil in him, though he was not of that line. He had not the strength of his father yet clearer sight both in matters of the mind and the heart. As his brilliance surpassed that of his father, likewise did his pride. He was ever wrathful at the first sign of disrespect, yet he held his wrath in check and his emotions and purposes were hard for others to read.

Men thought him brilliant but cold. In fact he was often lonely. From his mother he received only warnings of court policy and intrigue, while his father grew more foreign to him with each passing day. His foresight let him see black days ahead, and while his courage was unfailing, he found his days empty. He had no equal in his land, and that knowledge gave him happiness and sorrow in equal measure. For there was none whose counsel seemed as good as his own, and from his early youth he learned to live apart from other men. He was indeed above them, his counsel superior, his courage greater and his skill in battle and lore unsurpassed. "More like a King than a Steward," men whispered, and he hearkened. But as with all things he listened to his own mind, and comparison to a king gave him no joy, only a dark sense of foreboding.


	2. Young Captain

More early years of Denethor, the drama will fully appear in the next chapter. Thanks for the feedback. Work has been whopping my rear. I'm hoping to win converts to my Denethor fanclub, maybe if I dress him up like Aragorn…

What I would have

Ch II: Captain of Ithilien

The spring of Denethor's 24th year, instead of the usual revelry of birds, there came a silence that grew ever greater, and many became afraid and spoke in whispers. Then Denethor noticed a curious thing, for now men seemed to crave his company, whereas before they had taken little pleasure in his presence. It was to him now that men turned to guidance, for Ecthelion was all but locked in his council and chambers, making the city ready for whatever was to come. Denethor had been appointed young to the rank of captain, but no one doubted his quality. Indeed it was done partially because no one felt comfortable giving orders to the young man, and because old campaigners and new recruits alike turned to him for their commands. True to form Denethor had shown little surprise at the promotion, save his eyes had lit with fire that betrayed his pleasure with the decision.

He had received the promotion in field; a letter from the Steward had arrived appointing him as head of the Ithilien guard. Denethor had broken the seal, read the letter impassively; then, not missing a beat, turned and issued an order to his former commander. It was only later that night, watching the city in the distance glow with moonlight, that Denethor allowed himself to indulge in a rare moment of emotion. If any had been there to witness his tears they would not have thought him cold and unfeeling. His face twisted with pain, and he bit hard upon his lips while around him the trees whispered and sighed in the soft night air. Although he was now a match for the man, he had been fond of his former commander, captain Hirgon. The battle scarred old knight was now soon to retire his blade, but he was wise and kindly. He had treated Denethor like any young recruit, which few had dared, and taught him much by doing so. Now Denethor grieved for one of the few teachers he had had, and a man who had often treated him as though he were a son. And he spoke thus alone to the night, for Denethor knew there was no man on earth to hear such words,

"Now I shall ever order his comings and goings, and he shall kneel before me, and obey. I must speak coldly to him whom I have shared long years with. Now I am Captain Denethor, who in time shall be Denethor, Steward. Never again shall I jest or speak with these men as though they were my brothers; men that I have lived with and shared my youth."

But he knew as well as any the rigors of his inheritance, so now he had none to confess his loneliness and unhappiness to. Between him and all others was a wall made of centuries of tradition, a coming war, and the stern needs of command. Within two months he returned to the city, to an empty throne room. The ruling house was at the wedding of young Golwen of Lossarnach to Hirlan of Pinnath Gelin, and the great hall was alive with light and mirth. Denethor paused long in the approaching hallway, with little desire to enter. He heard the laughter of the maidens as they danced a pretty quadrille, and on the threshold of the hall he espied many of the lords of the land, and among them his father. They danced and made merry, bowed to ladies and talked of small matters. He looked at the brilliantly colored silks, then stared at his own weather stained jerkin. The hall was blooming with many sweet flowers, while he still smelled of the pines of Ithilien, and as the maiden's clasped hands and walked in a dainty circle, he unconsciously felt his own hands- calloused form the sharkskin hilt of his sword.

Then he entered the light of the hall, and those gaily-colored men stood straighter to greet him, and silly maidens giggled and bowed when he passed. He spoke courteously to the new couple, and their families. Then he stood with the older men in the room, for he had little taste for dancing.

Ecthelion, breathless from dancing, soon found and greeted him, "Hail Captain Denethor, your grandsire will crave a word with you tomorrow, to see how our interests fair on the eastern borders."

Denethor bowed, "I am glad to see you again my father."

And they stood for a while, the silence between them growing louder. His father at length was sought for more dancing, but none were bold enough to make such a suggestion to the grim son. He was sorely out of place in his faded sable, and he made his excuse and departed. To reach his own room he needs must pass by the throne room, and he tarried there awhile. The moonlight swept in the windows, and the stern images of stone kings seemed pale and sorrowful in such light. He drew near the plain black chair of his fathers, which would one day be his, and traced his fingers over the old wood. He turned at the sound of light footsteps behind him, and greeted his mother.

"I hear you are a captain now," she replied.

"Verily mother, but that is not why you have followed me."

"My son, why do you come to a feast so attired, will you not now change and return to us?"

"I am weary mother, and fain would lie down."

"There are many lords here tonight, your presence is missed."

"Then I will return shortly mother, and be merry, if that is your will."

"A dutiful son! If that is my will, and what of yours, do none of the maidens strike your fancy? Are these valiant lords such dull company?"

"Rather mother, it is I who shall seem dull, and the ladies are fair, but I do not seek such distractions."

At those words Idril shook her head and reached a hand out to caress his face.

"I had hoped my son to see thee wed soon. You are yet in the flower of youth, but a child no longer. I, your father and I both, would both enjoy to see the future of Gondor made secure by your infant sons."

"Then it must wait mother," Denethor replied taking her hand and noticing the fine wrinkles upon it for the first time, "but I will return now, and look with careful eye, that I might find such a one."

Then she shook her head, "Nay son you a tired from your labors abroad. There will be more such occasions."

And she left him in the dark throne room, and returned to the dance. Denethor stood there long and utterly alone, but now his heart was filled with a new thought: that he might not always be thus. Under that blue and cold light the very stones seemed soft, and the muted dancing piped almost like the voices of children. His thoughts had been of his sire and peers, but now they strayed to… to her, whomever she might be, and sons: sons to follow him, to know his heart, men that he would be free to love.

It took Denethor two decisive victories and three years to become commander of both the guard and the rangers. He won high renown in the relentless harrying of the Uruks that defied the borders of Gondor. He was deadly with the blade, though other men were of wider girth and greater strength, and his command of the field could not be matched. As a captain he played his moves on the battlefield with the distance of a man at a game of chess, or like one who is but rehearing a well-known tale of the past. Whether leading a full charge of two thousand knights or a desperate stand of an infantry company, his face remained ever stern and unmoved. Indeed his strength in battle and in all aspects of his life made him seem stern as stone, and a man would no sooner try to cross him than he would think of assailing the gates of his city with his bare hands. So Denethor's orders in all things were followed, and he became a great captain. Under the growing shadows he seemed hard as mithril and men drew hope from this strength: that even under the shadow of the east he at least would remain unchanged and unbreakable. Yet this sort of captain gave them strength but no joy. Stones do not mourn for the dead. Steel, though fairly wrought, is always cold. And this also was cause of concern for his father, since it seemed there sprang little love in the heart of his son. Though the son indeed surpassed the sire, Ecthelion also had the keen eyes of his fathers and he perceived his son's loneliness. He perceived but found no remedy, for ever the face of Denethor grew grimmer and more unmoving.

Denethor soon had reason enough for his mood, for a great evil seemed to be gathering in the east. The land held its breath as though bracing for a strong storm in the summer. Sensing and fearing the onslaught of such a storm, Turgon grew more cautious in his policies. He ordered his men to keep close to the borders, and many men labored to prepare provision and small fortifications, as though for a great siege. Ecthelion stayed close to the city now, both because he still would learn from his aging father, and because his father feared to have him leave. Denethor noticed how it irked his father to yield land unfought, and indeed he saw displeasure on the faces of many of the men at those orders. Yet Denethor alone now patrolled and watched over the lands of his fathers, and this gave him great satisfaction

In lonely and mist filled forests his heart though grew stronger and warmer, even as his features grew grimmer, for Denethor flourished where others withered and he took pleasure from duties and tasks that others viewed as burdens. He found the niceties of court and home tiring, whereas a two-night battle with orcs left him fresher than it found him. His battle mettle was remarked upon, and word brought back to Turgon and his father, but now the foes on all borders had retreated like water pulled towards an approaching wave.

In this ominous lull Turgon read much, and Denethor received new commission. He was sent far inside the realms borders, where he promptly busied himself observing local industry and supply routes of Langstrand and Morthrond. Both his father and the Steward were surprised when he exhibited none of the impatience of a young man at being so recalled. Denethor once again confounded the men who knew him, for he treated all tasks as one. His father though was dismayed, for Ecthelion was a warrior himself, and had enjoyed feats of arms; that Denethor should greet the job of a governor with the same enthusiasm that he displayed in battle confounded his understanding, and as always he knew not how to treat his offspring.

With more time to spend around the steward's house in the city, Denethor began to see his father for the first time as a man sees another man. How unalike they seemed! For his father was filled with mirth and Denethor with emptiness. He would hear his father until late at night singing along with his minstrels or talking of the elder days. The sound of music and laughter would interrupt Denethor's own private studies, and he would stand in a darkened hall and listen to those sounds, and watch dim shadows and firelight play across the stones, but he could not partake. He felt the intrinsic value of such things, but they meant as little to him as the concerns of his laundry woman or the menu for the next feast. He was often now rather glad there was an army to belong to, for he had no attachment to the other things that people loved; his heart did not quicken at the dancing, nor did his mind burn with the wine. He did not forget his mother's admonishment, and when required he performed his duties at parties and ceremonies as though he was a cleverly constructed puppet. He knew the perfect things to say, and when, but what cheered and affected others meant nothing to him, and those things that he cared about and loved, he loved alone.

As the weeks passed a hush fell over the land, as though all of nature was holding its breath as some rough and powerful beast stalked by. There was no breath of air, and the voices of men were subdued. Denethor returned to report to Turgon of a foray in Ithilien and found the city bordering on panic. No one acted upon or voiced their fears outright, but women grabbed for the hands of their children when they strayed, and men's glances would turn often towards their homes and kin when they spoke.

Then one day a tremor ran through all the ground. Denethor, who had been discussing new iron ore prices with men from Dale, ran outside. As he left the room a hail of small rocks, dust, and plaster fell from the ceiling. He climbed to one of the parapets and as he ran the stairs shook and wavered before him as if they were made of water. As he gained the upper wall he looked to the east and lo! A fountain of ash was spewing forth from Mount Doom. It reached impossibly far into the sky, and for one moment seemed it would reach the very heavens. Then a rumbling sound, like an approaching wave swept towards the city. Buildings groaned and shook, statues fell, people cried out, Denethor himself was thrown off his feet, and the world rocked as though verily it had become the sea.

There issued from the city a terrible grinding sound, his ears rang and the wall beneath him bucked and swayed. There was a rumble far behind him, and he realized part of the mountain had cascaded down. Somehow, he managed to right himself, and then all was still.

Denethor saw now that some building had fallen, especially in the lower levels of the city. People were calling out to each other in panic and pain. Leaning on the stones, he observed that the walls of the city were unscarred and whole. The city itself stood. Only some of the lesser houses had crumbled. Already men ran to aid those trapped in rubble, while the guardsmen took stock of the damage. Denethor paced the wall, that his people might see him, and grow calm. The rocks of those proud walls were still alabaster and unscathed. The city stood strong as ever. And so did he.

The billowing cloud, boiling black, now loomed closer. Green and purple lightening sprang from it and smote the ground. Yet it did no more than cast a shadow and gloom. Within the confines of Mordor it stayed. As he beheld that sight Denethor laughed.

That laughter rang through the city, the sound of a young man in the strength of his pride and power, fearless and strong of purpose. Ecthelion, who had sheltered his father in the throne room, now ran through the palace in search of his wife and son. The palace was unscathed, but he feared that Denethor was in a lower part of the city. He checked in mid stride when he heard Denethor's laughter. Ecthelion then made his way to a door leading outward and saw for the first time the dark cloud that he would know for the rest of his days, under whose shadow his father and offspring would die, and he wept. He wept for his country, and the evil fate of his people, but most of all he wept for his son, who could look upon such bitterness and horror, and laugh.

Ecthelion now soon became steward in all but name, Turgon had fallen as though stricken with a blow, and he seemed to age years for each day. Denethor rode eagerly to face what foes this new shadow had spawned, but he found them naught. The trees of the forest were pale and empty, and the very river ran quietly. A few years passed of this agonized waiting, and it took its toll upon Turgon. He soon died, a bent yet stubborn old man. He insisted on walking himself in slow and painful steps down the path of Rath Dinen. Ecthelion walked beside him down the silent marble streets, before noon he returned bearing the rod of office, and took command of his city. He would have liked the comfort of having his only son with him, but he knew they would have naught to say to one another.

Now that he was tied to the city by his duties, Ecthelion was loath to send his son any further under the shadow that had killed his father. He sent a call for champions, all men of courage and courtesy who would face the shadow in the service of Gondor, and many came. Yet he could not long restrain Denethor from active duty, not protect him from battle for long. As if in answer to his problem a fleet from Umbar began to molest the southern coast, and the lands sent emissaries requesting aid. So he dispatched his son to protect and aid the small but vital land of Ethir, and the fair ports of Belfalas.


	3. Like A Father

Thanks for the feedback, sorry for the delayed updates. Yes allusions, intentional though misspelled, will be explained. Obviously this isn't a happy story (mmm! Eels' broth chunky style) written in the style of the appendices/ silmarillion because I couldn't possibly write the novel this story deserves. If id known what a pain this style is, I would've stuck to reading other people's fics. This may be a bit rough, no betas.

What I would have

Ch III: Like a Father

It was a through a salty fog that Denethor traveled through Belfalas. He had dim memories from his youth of sunshine and sea air, but since he had reached manhood he was occupied elsewhere. The soft night muted the sound of their mounts' hooves, as he led his entourage of twelve knights over the hilled roads that led to the sheltered port of Dol Amroth. A strong ocean smell brought a faint smile to his lips, but his keen eyes soon noticed a blurred star shining through the night, distorted and wavering, soon followed by another a short distance away. Then the company broke into a full canter, for the signal lamps of the port were lit.

The fog obscured and distorted many things, some sounds were smothered and others carried far beyond their natural bounds. The signals from the lamps were obscured and wavering, so they pressed their mounts on as quickly as they dared but that was not swift. They could not guess as to what enemy they were to encounter and more than likely they would be helpless on arrival, for steeds were of little use in an area where a naval battle assigned the victor.

The dawn had begun to break ere they crested the last hill and came upon the city. Denethor's steed practically sat upon its haunches as he muscled it to a halt at the hill gate. There the guard, recognizing the silver and sable, waved him through, but from that vantage point they saw they would be of little use. The signaled warning in the night, glaring from the lanterns on ships at sea and echoing off the hills had warned that a fleet of Corsairs approached, and while his company of knights approached he could see two enemy ships in the harbor. The smaller fishing and trade vessels had already docked, their crews gathered sails and doused their decks against fire shot. Meanwhile; fair and silent, glittering silver in the early morning, stood a slender yet shapely ship, flying high the colors of Dol Amroth. It remained where it was in the mouth of the harbor and fired not a single volley, like a gull in the sun it appeared, moving slightly with the dips in the wind while appearing to hang motionless.

The corsairs, intent on their smaller prey, had only just begun to notice this silent threat. As a single ship they disliked their odds, so the two both turned to engage. At that point Denethor felt a great happiness well inside his heart for he perceived the clever strategy of this yet unmet captain of Gondor, and he had a good idea of who this man might be. The Corsairs' black sails stuttered and snapped, for they tacked against the wind, and thus their momentum died. Then swiftly and gracefully as the swan on its masthead, the Gondorian vessel entered the harbor. It maintained a sharp angle, allowing a rain of burning shot to fall onto one ship while a great shout rose from the Corsairs. The second Corsair ship attempted to level out to return fire, and the swan of Gondor never slowed its pace. It hit full on, cracking the weaker vessel's hull in twain. The black sales fell from the mast and the splintered wood drove many of the crew into the sea. Now faced with two crippled ships, the Swan drifted slightly out of distance and dropped anchor as the crew went to work with their bows and the large mounted crossbows of the ship.

Observing from a distance hillside, Denethor now sat fully back in his saddle while his companions exclaimed. The deadly, precisely drilled marksmanship of Gondor claimed the victory as dirty white rags began to wave. Two barges with companies of guards now pushed out to rescue the men and take captives. To Denethor's complete satisfaction he observed that both the fractured ship and the burning one were roped and towed so that they were not to block the port. It was midmorning ere all this was accomplished and the horsed champed their bits, yet Denethor could not be persuaded to move on until he had seen the full operation, noted all he liked and made mental notes for improvement.

With light hearts the knights made their way to the cheering crowd at the dockside. The captain of the ship, victor in battle, prince of the land, walked down the ramp and through the surges of subjects that pressed around him. He marked the company of strange knights and approached them where they met with bows and courteous words, in the mutual admiration of two tried strategists, and thus did Denethor of Gondor remake the acquaintance of Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth.

"Greetings Lord, I bring aid from my father, and now congratulations."

"Hail and well met my Captain of Gondor, it has been long since the son of Ecthelion graced my house, and as always you are welcome."

They clasped shoulders and proceeded to the hall that overlooked the city. As they walked through the streets Adrahil frequently paused to reach his hands out to the fishmongers, washerwomen, sailors and all the common people of Gondor whose dark dawn of dread he had lifted. At this Denethor marveled, for he preferred to maintain a regal distance, but Adrahil laughed.

"My Lord Denethor, they do not take liberties. Any man come from a four months' voyage is glad enough of a welcome, and it helps keep up the courage of these people that they may feel me as a father to them."

"Truly my Lord of Dol Amroth, if they depend on you for their courage it will be sore tried in your absence."

Then Adrahil laughed again and said, "Nay, for I leave them a great ruler in my stead."

And as he spake they came on the threshold of the house and there were greeted by a lad not yet old enough for commission, yet he bowed low and welcomed them with courteous words.

Adrahil turned to Denethor, "And here is a line of defense you did not observe from your hillside vantage, my son Imrahil."

Denethor smiled faintly at the boy. "And do you not serve as midshipsman to your father?"

"He has no taste for it, he rides like a son of Minas Tirith and ever increases our cavalry."

The boy flushed, so Denethor replied, "Perhaps because he well knows the strength of your navy."

Adrahil nodded at this, "But not strong enough, as I'm sure you deem it to be. Well well, here we are with a victory to celebrate and long journeys to recover from. We will see you quartered Lord, and next time lad send message over land as well, instead of just warning."

Despite its ominous start this began a happy time in Denethor's life, for though he was a formidable leader he was not yet skilled in naval war and defenses, and here he found a glad teacher. He spent much time with the Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth, and the old mariner taught him many things he had not known about seafaring. Thus did Denethor form a great affection for Dol Amroth and its people, since seldom did he find men who knew things that he did not. Adrahil treated young Denethor with great respect, first as heir of the realm, and later as he found his worth as a captain of sea as well as land. And the young man in turn became less stern under his teachings. Perhaps the sea as well stirred the blood of Numenor in him. He found his work on ship and along the coast to be pleasant and restful.

Seldom though would he allow himself to indulge in peace or rest. He now sought to protect this land with great care. His foresight told him that this land must not fall, and he traveled often and far along the coast, securing its safety. He culled a group of the best ships and sailors of Belfalas to form a patrol, and had personally seen to the strengthening of Cair Andros. There, with much labor, he transported goods and fortified the isle, and he did this with great diplomacy, that the land felt little strain upon its resources.

For more than a decade Denethor labored, and he worked hard in his fashion. He perceived the fleets of Umbar to be a threat to all the Southlands, as well as the realm of Gondor itself. He wrote several missives to this effect to Minas Tirith asking at times for money and other times for goods. He was busy and happy, but he also began to form a new facet of his personality, that like a tied dog worried ever at his insides. He began to grudge his losses, whether by foe or nature. He started to draw up plans for rebuilding even while the sea inevitably took its yearly due of men and ships.

Adrahil had learned long ago to respect Denethor's tenacity. On an early voyage he had laughed as Denethor's carefully scribed figures and notes were dispatched by one freak splash from the prow. Denethor struggled for a moment to make out the parchment plans in his hands, which were running sea water and black ink over his fingers while rapidly growing to unreadable mush, then joined in the general mirth as well. There was a note of relief in his laugh, and then scorn, for he cast the notes overboard and continued as though they were before him. After that Denethor learned to forbear the writing, and would simply set his own mind the task of scribe. And as they had to the north in Minas Tirith, the men soon learned to respect and fear those watchful grey eyes, which saw and marked and did not forget. Adrahil respected greatly this mind, odd though he found it, but he thought it rather unhealthy. As a mariner there was a certain amount of give in his understanding of life that Denethor not only lacked, but at times refused to see.

On a green lit and sultry day Denethor watched his newly commissioned ships head far out to sea that they might survive a coming storm. He watched the winds whip through the mouth of the port, pushing a wall of water before it that smote the sea wall of Dol Amroth with a great spray. More than any port he had seen in over a decade of service, he cared for this capital city. His face was marked with displeasure as he watched the murky waters rise ever higher, lifting smaller boats and spilling the contents of waterside dwellings into the streets. He paced the balcony of the prince's house as frantic people fled up the streets to higher ground and cursed the loss of each building under his breath. The wind blew fiercely into him with such fiendish howls that he did not notice the appearance of the prince until he spoke.

"You'll gain little save your death of cold by withstanding the storm on the balcony, Denethor."

Denethor did not reply at once, but turned his face to the harbor. "We should add a lower wall in the city, and draw clearly plans for drainage in the fourth quarter."

"It's a storm Denethor. They do not follow plans."

"It is an adversary, one that can be outwitted as surely as any other. And the damage will be repaired. The limestone is weak, in the spring I will send some trade caravans north to Lamedon for marble."

Adrahil was alarmed by this thinking, and despite the biting wind turned to face him. "We may yet lose the wall entirely. Permanence is not to be found in the life of man, particularly where the sea is concerned."

Denethor smiled a little at this and motioned that they should enter the house, but Adrahil lingered a minute behind- because he had lived for many years under such weather, and because he would gaze once more at the boiling harbor and beyond to the fleet and his son.

It took both of them to pry open and relatch the great shutters in the hall. As the water pooled off of them and onto the floor and the footmen of Adrahil sought buckets, they shared a brief smile.

"It was well said, Adrahil, that we are without permanence. But constancy dwells in the hearts and minds of men, and that will sustain the city and fleet. And initiative will ensure that the changes we endure shall be for the better."

Adrahil shook his head at this and accepted the sentiment and comfort, as it was rare for Denethor. He knew though that only Orome commanded the sea, and the land itself grew over old ruins, and that men often outlived their sons.

The storm at length abated and Imrahil, now almost a man and a lieutenant, did come back, slightly green around the gills but triumphant. They had lost only two ships to the ravages of the sea. The port was bustling with repairs before the surge had even fully receded and that alone told him were to find Denethor. As they made their return his ship had intercepted a smaller vessel of Gondor, which among other things carried new orders for the son of Ecthelion.

He bowed as he approached to the senior rank and man, and presented his message. He never developed the affection his father had for Denethor. Imrahil felt Denethor drove the men too hard at trivial tasks, and at times he resented this second presence in the land of his father's authority. Despite these feelings he still had great respect, and even some fear of the Lord, for unlike his father he had seen glimpses of the warrior Denethor was as well, and that his true element was in land battle. Denethor was not wholly unaware of the attention he took from Imrahil's father, and both for the strength of Gondor and by means of a fair trade he made it a point to impart a great deal of knowledge to Imrahil as to the formation and direction of cavalry, since it was almost foreign to these parts of Gondor.

Imrahil now approached as Denethor was directing the salvaging of some stranded fishing vessels.

"Hail Lord Denethor, I bear news." Imrahil handed him the letter, which he took without comment and read.

Denethor unrolled the parchment to find orders and recent accounts of trouble along the river Anduin, and he frowned that the life vein of Gondor had been allowed to become imperiled,

"Pray tell your father I leave tonight, Imrahil. I have urgent business to the north."

With that Denethor bowed, turned and resumed his duties, leaving Imrahil at a loss for momentary words.

"My Lord, is that all you would have me tell my father?"

Denethor did not turn around. "Verily, Lieutenant. I must leave tonight."

Imrahil proceeded up the wooden stairs, first a splintered mass, then fragments caked with sand and mud, until they turned to the familiar grey outer steps of his home. Here he was greeted by a fleeting sprite of a child, his infant sister, who had wept at the lightening but now danced about him as he gave full report to his father. Adrahil made no comment on the proceedings, but being a young and passionate man, Imrahil was unable to quite hide his feelings.

"Here is repayment for ten years lodging and friendship father, I fear you will get naught else."

"Let him be son, that his not his way. He is delaying his departure until he has full stock of what we need from the north, and he will send it- and cheaply. That is the way of this man, Denethor is uninvolved in trivial words, but does much in deed."

"I have heard him be courteous and fair spoken to others, father."

"He sorrows son, like any other man. Of that you can be sure. Perhaps more at this parting than other times, and for that reason we will get no farewell. He has been happy here as he was not in all the times I beheld him in his father's court. He labors for this city as though it were his own, and that is worth more than fair words."

Then Adrahil gave orders for a meal to be laid for his now reunited family. Imrahil changed from sea soaked clothes and met the grateful embrace of his mother. The kitchen fire blazed merrily as Imrahil gave an account of the storm to his mother and tiny sister and gathered household servants. Adrahil at length turned from the happy scene to watch the torchlight glow in the gathering dust, and felt great pity for the man who had no such happy fire to return to, but his pity was mingled with understanding. For the sea at all times pulled at him, even at happy moments such as this, so he could well deem how duty clung to the heart of Denethor and how, as inexorably as the tide, it removed him from all he would love.

Denethor also marked the blaze of light from Adrahil's house, and from the many homes spread over the hill happy now with their men home from the sea. Families and friends reunited over wine or simple bread. Or gladly gathered friends with newly lost homes under their roofs. He walked through salt mud to the stable and tacked his horse, finding no words to say to Adrahil and knowing that he had need of none.


	4. Like a Brother

Getting to the action thanks for bearing with me– Finduilas makes her entrance soon for those who were wondering. I'm sticking to the canon timeline, which means there are some years to kill. To those who feel this is dragging I will perhaps go back and edit, but I want to build a sympathetic character and that means explaining a lot of his issues.

What I would have

Ch IV: Like a Brother

Following rumors of orc raids Denethor now reached Ethir Anduin and sailed in small river boats to the northern parts of Ethir. Long now the fell reek had been issuing from the land of Mordor. It cast a pall over all the surrounding lands, and the sun was dimmed for several years. With this dimming came a bitter cold, such as had not been for seen in this age. The piers shivered and cracked as splinters of ice wedged open their boards, the fields blackened with killing frost, and men fell ill by the scores. But for his previous prudence the outposts would long ago have run out of provisions. Along the Anduin the mists kept the land slightly warmer, yet the damp made the men shake with fever and the constant gloom chilled their hearts.

Denethor strove to keep the rivers open and the trade lines working, lest famine should lay Gondor low. Denethor spent bitter years now in the sickened land administrating, planning, cajoling and threatening. At times, mired in icy river mud, or listening to the complaints of wagoners who refused to travel the dangerous roads, his heart would stray to the sunny and pleasant land he had left. Yet his mind stayed on purpose, and he told himself he was happiest where he was. Even in the midst of fitful sleep he would wake if he found his dreams straying. And no matter what the weather or demands of the previous day, he exercised his swordsmanship every morning and drilled his men as well lest they should forget. Then in 2966, along with bran and arrowheads, the Steward sent him tidings of joy. A formidable man had come from the service of Thengel of Rohan, who had likewise sent for aid. Thorongil was his name, and Ecthelion recognized him to be a man of great worth. Denethor received more than one message, of alike quality

_It is with joy I have viewed his progress. He alone has secured several key victories and it comes to my mind that he may aid thee in thy labor. Indeed he is unlike the men of Rohan, being subtle and even grim at times. He is alike enough to be thy brother. _

Denethor smiled faintly and humorously at this. He felt a growing shadow cover his heart that was not born of the chill wind and cold mists. Still he deemed it a passing fancy of his father, and replied lightly in his next report that any aid his father thought to send he was sure would be welcome.

He had begun to organize small patrols to sweep the roads, and redirect routes according to the information he received. As he recruited and trained he became increasingly in possession of larger forces. The renewed trade lines and security had led to a population increase along the river. Many young men were eager now to protect their homes. The men spoke of a large and decisive battle, but that was not Denethor's intent. He desired solely to make the river secure, and saw large conflict as unnecessary and wasteful. He knew that few decisive victories were gained unless the forces of the aggressor greatly out numbered their opponent, and he saw these troops as a deterrent rather than an army. The foul weather had proven his previous work to be well thought of, and he resolved that he would continue as he had begun.

On an early fall day a messenger appeared bearing a letter with a strange seal upon it. Inside, to his surprise, he found a letter in the hand of his mother.

_My son,_

_I write now to tell you to petition your father for your return. Too much does this Captain sway your father's heart. If Thorongil talks of advancement then the next day Ecthelion mentions it to his council. I fear we grow overbold in our policies, and neglect the safety of our lands in favor of border territories._

Denethor was troubled, for never before had his mother taken to write him, but he was busy with many things and so he left this matter unresolved. He wrote to ease her fears and did not mention a return in his report. And that he might forget the doubts that followed him like mists he drove his men heavily into fortifying the smaller trade centers.

So when his father sent word of that same counsel from the lips of this stranger he felt as though these deeds were shorn of glory. And it now bothered him that a stranger's voice should have more weight than his own, though they spoke the same words to his father's ears.

In a few months' time, however, a new letter arrived. This time by a breathless errand rider of the court, who waited for a reply upon his foaming steed.

_Denethor,_

_You are skilled in diplomacy, too skilled, for as with all great diplomats, your works are subtle and create little need for comment. I fear your name has faded like a torch before the sun, for the Uruks of Ithilien have been driven back from the crossroads by a stray company led by the new captain, Thorongil. This victory despite such odds is loudly proclaimed in the court. Denethor, in your last letter you reasoned, 'that though few men take notice of the walls of the city, they are its greatest asset,' and that likewise you do not need to garner praise. It is not praise but love this man receives. Return as soon as you can as I greatly wish it._

_Lady Idril_

Denethor was then amazed, for his mother had never written to him with such urgency. He wondered if it was a change in her own heart or if this captain was truly such a threat. He felt something amiss and could not place what it was, or why his father and mother should be at such variance in their opinions. He wrote quickly, placing the opened cover on the cloth of the horse.

_Arrange this if necessary, it will be requested in my next report._

Yet after the rider was gone he felt irritated, for he had little desire to return to the politics of the court, where much was said and little done. His disquiet did not leave him in the following days, but rather grew. He soon felt rather that he had done the right thing for Lady Idril's council was never given lightly or without reason.

Even as he debated the matter news came of victories in Ithilien under the same Thorongil from Rohan. The men rejoiced and meager feasts were laid out, and Denethor smiled and toasted the victory while inwardly cursing the senseless waste of food. The small triumph in arms was toasted by men who cared little where the ale that warmed them came from, they had their first meat in weeks without a thought as to the machinery that had brought game into a land where all the trees were blighted. The shadow itself had seemed to grow lighter, and men found ever more cause for mirth.

Denethor waited for his new orders, and gave much thought as to why these glad tidings should lie so heavily on his heart. He saw now the wisdom of his mother's counsel and set about ordering things for his return. After much debate he fractured his company, leaving few to guard the outposts, so that he might return with new forces to Gondor. If military strength was now the Steward's fancy, then he would bring a full company of new men with him.

At last came a message in reply. Denethor was recalled to Minas Tirith.

Traveling back to the city, he observed with pride the well fortified roads and supplied towns through which he passed, indeed it was with more pride than he had ever viewed a battlefield. To see a town in action and industry, carefully defended and prepared, instilled in him the same pride of accomplishment that other men took in honors and medals gained in combat. Yet part of his mind still was troubled, for he little had little considered the implications of a political assault. Only the steady beat of the columns of men that followed him eased his mind on these matters.

It was late afternoon as he approached his old home, which he had been absented from for more than a decade. He noticed small changes, trees that had grown, new houses, but most had stayed as it was and he felt then that there was too little action paid to the city. Perhaps his father was too concerned with distant battles to notice his own position on the field. Denethor frowned and resolved to mention this. Even so he had distinct pleasure in riding up through the city walls. He recognized some of his old men, or the features of some in the gawky young recruits who did him honor as he approached. The midday sun gave way to the fires of evening, and a pleasing glow soon spread throughout the city. At last he dismounted and walked through familiar doors, smelling the wood and tapestry smell of his quarters, hearing the familiar sounds of the servants preparing a celebratory feast, and a buzz from the courtyard of the White Tree as the guests arrived.

Denethor at last approached the doors of the great hall. He had brought with him an armload of parchments, expecting to give full account of his deeds, only to find a scene of unexpected mirth. Ecthelion sat with a strange young man in the soldiery of a captain of Gondor. The man beside Ecthelion would appear to any onlooker to be his son: tall and young, with raven hair and sea grey eyes. He was merry as Ecthelion, and they both were quoting from the lay of the fall of Gondolin. Indeed the brother Denethor never had stood before him, but between brothers there is often strife, and between rivals there is little love. The warm orange light streamed over them as they sang a line together and Ecthelion clapped a friendly hand upon the stranger's back. They were still unaware of the newcomer; no guard had announced Denethor's return. Like the other men in the room, captains and nobles, they stood transfixed. It was not honor or duty that held them thus- it was love. Denethor observed this, but he cared not for the love of any man save the aging man in the black wood chair. The man that now gazed on this stranger with all the obvious love and pride that Denethor could still recall from his early childhood. And he envied this stranger's ease at his father's side. Then they were aware of him, and the mirth stole quietly from the room. With that herald Denethor entered and bowed to his father.

His father, sterner in manner and now looking years older, greeted him thus, "Denethor of Gondor, here is a fine man indeed, Captain Thorongil, come of late from Rohan."

Denethor now turned for his first glance into Thorongil's eyes, and saw the depth of his mistake. Here was the blood of Numenor unsullied by time. A man beloved, around whom the whole room, quite unconsciously, had positioned itself. Guards and nobles wheeled about him like constellations, and he observed them with a keen and practiced eye. As though he were a solitary mariner, set now to draw a straight course through the political waters of the last great kingdom of men. Denethor felt his jaw tighten; here was a threat to his authority, and his father's.

Thorongil rose and bowed to Denethor, who in deference to the equal rank clasped him at the shoulder. A murmur went through the crowd then, for it was an eerie sight, like looking at a mirror brought to life. The two stared at each other a long moment, and it seemed as though one must fade. Then Denethor drew his head slightly higher and struck a regal pose, with all the haughtiness of a wronged king he replied "I am pleased to find such a worthy man in my father's service. Gondor has great need, and it is all the more cause for wonder that aid should come thus out of the shadows and wild lands."

Thorongil then bowed before him and his face shifted, he veritably smirked, and his eyes took on a rakish gleam. "I am honored to serve so great a land. There are many wondrous men in the world outside this realm, but it is always a joy to serve alongside such men as yourself Captain Denethor."

Then Denethor felt the challenge, but he had no desire to engage an unknown political foe before the seat of his father. So instead of answering, he bowed to Ecthelion, "By your leave my lord, I had wished to discuss with you the lowering of taxation on some of the southern routes and an allowance to be made for the building of…"

"Nay my son," Ecthelion stopped him, "it is long since you needed my counsel on such matters, you have my approval to order as you wish. I will discuss such clerical duties with you tomorrow, tonight we celebrate a victory in battle and a new dawn for Gondor."

Being thus summarily dismissed, Denethor took a seat on the other side of his father in stung silence. It was a mistake, for here he appeared as Thorongil's equal, and also it was his seat in childhood. His father without sparing him any further discussion, now returned to previous matters. To Denethor's anger and disbelief, these had nothing to do with policy but with the interpretation of old fairy tales.

He watched his father throughout the next long hour. He saw how he turned much to Thorongil, how his eyes sparked, how easy he was to laugh. And Denethor noted that Thorongil gravely returned that affection; though as times his gaze seemed drawn in the direction of Denethor. Thorongil now left off the tales and began to discuss matters of Rohan and beyond. Denethor marked how it was Thorongil that plotted this new course, and watched how easily Ecthelion was led upon it. And often in his speech Thorongil would refer to the elven wise or to one named Mithrandir, rather than to his own counsel. Denethor now had more possession of himself and sat back silently in his chair. Ecthelion did not think to include him in the conversation, so he was free to watch his father drinking up news of lands that this strange young man had traveled in, and Denethor watched and learned the answers to many questions he dare not ask.

Whatever hostility the two felt as they measured each other went unnoticed by the steward. Ecthelion nodded happily, for he felt the two to be similar, and to the ease of his aging heart he had hoped that he had found a peer and friend for his son at last. He then rose, and gave orders for a feast to be held that night, in honor of the return his son. And as he spoke his gaze fell on Thorongil at his side.

With that the steward left the room, leaving Denethor alone with the newcomer. Mustering some sense of propriety, Denethor quickly bowed and left as well. He preferred to make his exit singly that this Thorongil might follow and remember his place amongst the other captains. Even as he left though, he felt the beginning of whispers amongst the guards: a quick glance, a cough, a shift in balance. He needed to face Thorongil quickly, and settle matters between them.

Here was a matter of court intrigue and politics, and as usual he sought his advisor in these matters. He regretted now that he had not heeded her counsel, but he knew he would be forgiven for this. There was none in all the land of Gondor that understood him so well as the Lady of Minas Tirith, and he entered her wing to find himself anxious, and his heart beating over fast. Even among the warmth of Dol Amroth he had missed her, but he did not realize it until this moment. Denethor was mildly surprised that she had allowed this upstart such power, but he needed more than anything else to hear her counsel, that he might best prepare for his next encounter with Thorongil.

He had entered the well-remembered quarters of his childhood before he perceived something was wrong. There was a tight and musty odor of sickness, and despite the warm evening the Lady Idril was seated by a crackling fire. As he approached he saw that her head had gone white, and her hands clasped before her trembled despite the intense heat in the room. He would have fallen on his knees and taken her in his arms, but her demeanor forbade him. She greeted him gravely as ever.

"Hail heir of Mardil. My son the captain has returned, and I am happy to see him"

"Hail Lady Idril of Gondor, joyous I am to behold you again, and for many days to come."

Then there was a pause, and though she moved not it seemed some of her softened. There seemed more roundness in her shoulder, a slight trembling of her lip. Then he clasped her hand, more as he had as a child than as a man, for the foresight of Numenor was on them both.

"For a little while my son, and no more. I was told of thy arrival before a large company, and that was well thought of. You have seen this Thorongil then,"

Then Denethor knew he could not say what he longed to, that he cared nothing now for such matters. The whole of him ached to know now why she had written so closely of policy, and why she had veiled her true reason for desiring his return. But these words stuck in his throat, for his mother's love was one of politics and stern teachings, and her fondness showed in daughters well married and in her son's feats in the council chambers. So instead he replied, "I have seen mother, and I would now desire your council, and that you forgive my previous dismissal of your words."

"He ever takes strength from the land, and your father deems it well. He will over reach himself. Now that you are back, have a care not to leave again so lightly. You must remain, Minas Tirith is the seat of Gondor, never forget that in your policies."

"I will stay by you mother, if you desire it."

"I do not desire anything for my sake, I am past all desires- but you must handle this matter swiftly. It is why I arranged this feast. Tonight, while the nobles do you reverence, you must reassert your position."

Then the trumpets for the feast sounded, and Denethor took his leave, knowing it was her will that he not linger. Yet it was the last time ever he would speak privately to her, and that they both knew. At the door of her chamber he paused as though he would speak, but she sighed and said,

"Farewell most dear and beloved of my children. My powerebs and I will soon leave this world.ButI shall spend my remaining timehere, and think of all you have done, and all you will yet do, and that is my happiness. Hail and farewell Denethor of the house of Mardil, Steward to come,and son of my flesh."

She spoke these words to the fire, as though they were private thoughts, yet she knew he would hear them. Denethor did indeed hear, but could not admit to listening to her private council, and thus did she make him depart. The fire spread its warmth over her wasted features, and its blaze dried her tears before they could fall. Denethor knew no words for the loss he felt, but he bowed and was gone.

He found his father, dressed for revelry, outside his mother's chamber. Now he understood why his father had been so eager for mirth and distraction. They regarded each other in silence, and Ecthelion appeared old and sorrowful.

"I would not hold a feast at such a time, my son, yet she would have one at thy return."

"It is well father, she would have it so."

"The healers can do little, this illness is a fell work of the shadow. And bitter that it should strike so near to my heart. I marveled that you stayed away so long after she wrote you, I thought to write as well, but perhaps you were right. There is naught for us to do."

Denethor remained silent at this, but bowed his leave as Ecthelion entered the room. Denethor saw him go to her and place a hand on her brow. She had on her face, perhaps, the ghost of a smile. Then the door closed, and Denethor returned now to his own quarters.

He was surprised to find his rooms untouched. Though there were new bedclothes, the bedroom was still as he left it. His maps were still unmoved on his desk, and his bow still hung over the door. These objects now appeared as distant relics of his youth, almost childish compared to his more recent employment. Inside his closets he found many clothes, recently sewn. He pulled a fine woven shirt over his head, thinking for the first time of whose hands had measured and sewn it. He saw now too his reflection in the glass, tall and stern, with a lined face and the full body of a man, clad in the latest style. The silk of his tunic, the glass he looked in, the iron of his sword, all these objects now spoke to him of lands and policies. He now knew fully at what cost they obtained iron for weapons, or silks from the southlands. He was also aware of this change in his thinking. He was a man now with many years of experience in war and leadership behind him, more than capable of dealing with any rivals.

Denethor arrived in the somber formal attire of Gondor a short time later for the formal procession. He stood directly behind his father for the entrance. Ecthelion turned to him as the doors opened and trumpet sounded,

"My son," he said, "tonight is my first feast without her. The city can abide no more mourning; it will wilt under this shadow unless we warm the hearts of its people. Thy sisters and their husbands have come as well, together we will put aside grief."

Then Denethor was abashed, his pride seemed foolish and small compared to his father's grief. His family sat about him at the feast, taunting sisters of his youth had now become mothers themselves, and he saw Idril's face in theirs. It was not happiness then that he felt, but a sense of rightness and tradition. It was a poor substitute for the absent maternal support, but it served.


	5. The Dance

Ok finally some action, in true tolkien fashion- with lots and lots of dialogue.

What I would have

Ch V: The Dance

The hall was merrily lit, and the music played loudly to accompany the lively dancing that followed the feast. Denethor, scanning the room, found Thorongil watching from where the older men were want to gather before disappearing to games. His gaze upon noticing Denethor's approach told Denethor that he was expected, and that Thorongil was as eager to speak to him as he was for the encounter. This was slightly off putting, for his reputation alone should have made Thorongil want to avoid him. Again Denethor thought to himself that this man was more than a captain.

He wove his way through the room, nodding and smiling without truly paying attention to those he addressed. He was on his way to battle for his place at his father's side, and his mind now stayed fixed on the approaching altercation. It would have to be swiftly met, for Thorongil was charming and popular and would sway any audience allowed to gather. All the same, Denethor took his time crossing the hall, he made small talk and introductions, drawing out his approach until he had the captain alone and cornered where he wanted him. Thorongil bowed, as did he, and then there was a small silence. Denethor thought it best to take direction, and began.

"Do you not admire the music Captain? I would have thought you would be dancing."

"I should say the same to you, my Lord Denethor"

"Nay, for I have seen many dances, but men of learning and valor that immerge from the wilderness are rare indeed."

"Then I have the more cause for gladness, for we may speak of future plans without delay, and I have much to discuss with you about our southern fortifications, which are I deem, too weak." This last was delivered with a keen glance, Thorongil was eager to push his agenda, and he was quick enough to see that directness was the only way to deal with the man before him.

Denethor was not to be so easily pushed into centering the conversation on Thorongil's designs, "Indeed before laying plans, captain, I should like to know more of him who would craft my defenses, and make sure of his designs with regard to the kingdom."

"I can assure you only through deeds and purpose my lord, as I have no title in the court of your father, only the reputation I have won. Indeed many men prefer one who has gained trust over one to whom it has been appointed."

"Your meaning, sir?"

"I have no other meaning, I can only say I wish to speak with you, but if you are otherwise employed it is not necessary, tonight"

"I am always ready to discuss matters of the kingdom with my men."

"But surely not on such a pleasant occasion? Was this not the very reason for your return?"

"I do not go to court to see the king, if that is what you mean."

Denethor then had quoted an old jest in Gondor, but at his phrase the gaze of Thorongil deepened and his cheeks darkened. It would have gone unnoticed by a lesser man, but Denethor noticed most things, and he saw now that Thorongil was slightly angered- and also that he was afraid.

Then Thorongil interrupted his thoughts and drew himself together, yet now the laughing tone had left his voice entirely, "Do the men of Gondor hold their lost Kings in so little reverence then that they make a paltry jest of them?"

"It is a common expression… Here, that is," Denethor replied feeling uncomfortably defensive, "Is it common where you are from to mock Lords in their own house?"

Thorongil then looked somewhat abashed and bowed, "Nay Lord, I intend no slight on the house of Mardil nor the Steward of the realm, I am merely loath to see a house without a father, and a people without their King."

Denethor frowned, "Gondor has no need of a king, it is a myth, a legend, a thing for people to aspire to. The king is of more use gone, than a lesser lord such as we had during the waning and the kinstrife. There are many great men here without kings. We hold council with the steward to guide, we need not bow before one, and be subjected to his every whim"

Thorongil looked closely at Denethor and replied, "You do not speak of a king but a tyrant. A king is a father to his people, he rules through love, they bow before him because they respect him, they obey because they believe him to be just."

At this Denethor was again angered by what he perceived to be a rebuke, not of his father this time, but of his rule to come, for though all respected him, unlike Ecthelion he was not loved. "If you desire to speak in fairy tales; go back to the hall and your drink! There is no man so excellent, nor will there be. The people obey because they must. Besides, should a king appear you would not be so happy. You are in habit of talking in rough manner to your betters, a king would put short end to that."

"Aye indeed, should the king return then would I no longer speak as I do, yet by the grace of the Valar I might still be happy. And as for the King, being of the blood and line of Elendil, and that of Luthien, whose line fails not, he would be a great man. Therefore no need would he have of tyranny and rule of fear, for all would respect and love him."

"Not all," shot back Denethor wrathfully, "do not believe all the songs of the minstrels. Or, if thou hast not wits to see through their art, at least do not repeat such things. I do not wish to be argued against with songs, vague prophecies, and muttered dreams. Gondor has no need of a King, we are stronger now than we have been under many kings. Go woo the ladies with talk of Luthien, I am charged with the protection of this kingdom, not with dwelling on such idle fancies. I will not see my city dishonored or diminished by a half-breed lordling of a lesser house. Nor will I suffer her to be divided by strife. Go back to your dreaming, Captain Thorongil, no battle was yet won by dreams and ghosts of the past."

Then Thorongil look strangely at him, as though the hand of Manwe had pulled them both towards some dark fate. His face became stern beyond his years, as one who witnesses great suffering, and he replied,

"Son of Ecthelion who loves not dreams, and never will. For what then does your heart reach? Do you never imagine a Gondor that flowers in peace, and thrives under the pure sun, with all shadows illuminated?"

"Nay, what should be shall be, whether I dream it or no. Most clearly I can see a city in ruin and flames, should I spend my time in dreaming. For such have I often witnessed, the price of weakness and idleness in men. The shadow is necessary, just as pain and sorrow are necessary: a true man fears neither."

"A true man ought to fear both," replied Thorongil.

Now feeling himself to be patronized Denethor responded, "indeed sir I am surprised to hear you speak thus, for all your actions of the field I had not heard that you wanted courage."

Then Thorongil's eyes seem to snap grey fire and he replied, "I am at a disadvantage sir, for I have not heard of any actions of yours."

The two stood in balance for a moment and Denethor replied, "No, for I do not engage in rash and fruitless battles, and for that reason men of arms are seldom aware of skilled strategy. Yet I would be willing to travel as far as north Harad for the sake of security, and I hope you will join me, if you feel the task not beyond your measure."

Then Thorongil replied in a grim voice, "I accept your challenge Lord Denethor, and we shall soon measure deed for deed."

And Denethor then laughed and said, "We will see in the morning, and measure words with actions, and I hope I shall find you by my side when the new sun rises."

He had expected Thorongil to anger at this last sortie, but it seemed now that a calmness had fallen over the man, as though he had obtained something he had greatly desired, and Denethor felt in a rush of cold that it was not his will that had prevailed.

Thorongil held out his hand, "We will strike together then, for the glory of Gondor, and in the morrow I will join my company to yours."

Then Denethor turned from him as though surveying the room, though in fact he did not see it at all through a haze of fury, for he had in one moment pitted his honor against his will, and he saw that this offensive had been Thorongil's design all along. "Indeed sir all my actions are for Gondor, and Gondor fights for me, but I wonder, for whose glory do you fight?"

Just as Thorongil was about to make his reply, Ecthelion again approached the two, surrounded by a small crowd of older lords and ladies. Ecthelion laid a hand on each man's shoulders.

"Come my young captains, this is no time for trading war stories, the hall is merry, and there are many fair ladies in need of partners for dancing."

Thorongil then smiled broadly at the Steward, "Your wish is ever my command, my lord."

At this there was general laughter from the audience about them. Ecthelion's great laugh rang out, for the first time since the feast began. This reminded Denethor of his own cause for sorrow, and that he had in a moment of thoughtless anger broken his most recent promise to his mother. Lost in thought, he fell into step beside Thorongil as the next round formed. His awareness only came back to him as the dance began, leaving Denethor feeling awkward and disoriented. He turned and blindly bowed to the nearest maiden, who had in fact been standing quite near him for most of the evening, and began to dance.

The young maiden he was dancing with had eyes that glowed like twin suns, and her cheeks blushed a deep pink, but he did not notice. Indeed she was little more than an overgrown girl at her first dance. She had noticed that he did not laugh with the others, and that he seemed rather to darken, as though he was being mocked. She had a tender heart and a quick mind. Being unable to decipher much of the hidden meaning behind the words of the men, she keenly felt this a fault of her ignorance. Seldom had she witnessed two captains so clearly at odds, and she felt for the one whom she deemed to be unhappy. This moody and grim man shone in stark contrast to the gracious and untrue words that circled about her. While the two captains had argued so heatedly she had stood long looking at him, and it seemed that she then began to forsake her former life of pretty customs and soft ceremonies, and glimpse something far more serious may yet be waiting ahead for her.

Then the maiden heart of Finduilas received its first wound, but it was sweet, and the toys and pretty fancies of her childhood fell into a neglected past. Her mind was awakened by thoughts of nobility and danger, and new lands that lay beyond the borders of Dol Amroth, or the house of her mother's kin in Minas Tirith. Yet while her heart and mind glowed with new purpose her focus grew more intent on her partner. Denethor by default was skilled at dancing, but he was lost in his own thoughts and indifferent to her. As the dance continued he did nothing to steer her with accuracy nor took especial care to be tender with her, as he would have had he been in a more sedate state of mind. They moved through the hall relying entirely on his instincts to avoid collision, and as a result he often swiftly pulled her in one direction or another. She spun through the hall in his arms, and for the first time felt the grace and power of a man in his prime. Yet this slight thrill and physical exertion brought roses to her cheeks, and when the swift dance was ended she was a vision of breathless beauty. The minor exertion was for him distracting, and it was a sobered figure who finished with a bow to his partner. He looked up from his bow at a vision, but he was ill prepared for this swift and unforeseen change in the evening, and so was silent. For a long moment their eyes met, then Finduilas was overcome with youthful bashfulness, and made her curtsey and fled across the hall, all in one brief and fluid movement.

Denethor stood for a moment as one senseless, and then departed from the floor as well. He was a man who liked to plan his moves, yet tonight his policies had failed. He had been overmatched and bullied like a green recruit. This evening was proving too much for him. Shaken to the core, unsure for perhaps the first time in his life, he walked the halls of the palace alone and unseeing. His sense of duty compelled him to return to the dance, to repair old ties and try to undo his disastrous meeting with Thorongil. Every wasted moment was now time for Thorongil to inform his father of what had transpired, and to work the room, crammed with noble families, for support of his proposed maneuvers.

He walked the through the main hall now and down passageways, past startled maids who fluttered curtsies and a slumbering young guard. The latter he passed without comment or notice. For once duty was forgotten, the politics of the court, for the second time that day, were cast aside. He felt nothing and thought nothing; he had no plans. As he continued walking his feet now stepped from cold stone to soft grass, and he gradually grew aware that he had made his way to a garden. He knew not why he had chosen such a course, nor what he intended to do. But despite the day's disasters, his heart, unburdened by concerns or worry, felt inexplicably light.

The fresh air soon began to revive him and he was aware now of another figure that regarded him in amazement before stepping forwards through the moonlight. It was the girl from the dance. The pale blue moonlight drew shadows across her features and softened their lines. The years fell away from her, and she appeared pitifully young as she approached and curtsied. Then he bowed and not quite knowing that he did so, spoke.

"My lady, forgive my earlier discourtesy… I did not introduce myself."

Then his discomfort eased her, and she smiled slightly.

"All the court knows you, Lord Denethor, but I am Finduilas of Dol Amroth."

"Of Dol Amroth!"

"Yes, and you perhaps do not know me, though I have seen you for many years in the house of my father. I thought to speak to you, but I was unsure that you remembered me."

Denethor was recollecting himself, and he felt more at ease before the daughter of Adrahil. To his mind now came the dim memory of a child, one who would at times pester Imrahil, or cling to her father's hand. It seemed a happy omen, one that eased his heart and comforted his bruised pride. "Then I am glad to remake your acquaintance, my Lady."

She smiled at this, and Denethor with a slight tightening in his chest, again marked her blooming loveliness. Artless and sincere she approached still closer and smiled up at him.

"You marked me not in the house of my father lord, nor had reason to, I was but a child when we last met." At this Denethor smiled, and his heart was touched with seldom awakened pity, for she seemed very much a child still.

"Then it was foolishly done, to ignore you thus. But come my lady, you should not walk the palace alone, and I am sure by now we are both missed."

She took his outstretched hand somewhat hesitantly. "I do not wish to distract you my Lord, I fear you have far greater things to attend to than a stray maiden."

He then took her hand, and marveling at the light and tender flesh, tucked her arm under his. "You are no distraction, it would ease my care to walk now with you, and hear of your father. I have long been cut off from all but affairs of state."

She then turned her eyes to his and he saw she colored slightly, "I would be glad to ease your care, my lord"

Then as they walked through the palace she told him of the affairs of Belfelas, as seen through her eyes, and though many of her perceptions were childish and trivial, she at times surprised him with the depth of her understanding. He saw now her father in her, his sensibilities and perceptions. So as she ran out of things to say about home, he began to question her regarding the court. She told him more than she knew about recent politics, particularly regarding Thorongil. As they walked she also was reminded of the strength of their dance, the sureness and steadiness of his gate. From infancy he had been a strong and imposing figure to her, yet always remote. To have him now before her, and regarding her ideas and musing with keen interest also touched her vanity. She was by nature a serious girl, but those about her seldom noticed her interests in the affairs of the court, and she was not immune to the flattery of having such a rapt and at the same time commanding audience.

Soon the sounds of music and laughter began to echo towards them and though Finduilas was unfamiliar with the palace, she knew they approached the hall again. Her pace gradually slowed and he slowed to match. He was in no hurry to rejoin the party, nor did he feel any particular dread at doing so. Armed with the new information she had given him, he did not feel so unable to continue with his plans. He now had some clearer insight into just who supported this recent aggressive policy shift, and he saw now that this coming battle might be played to his advantage. Once Thorongil's company joined him, he would have seniority; and once he removed Thorongil from his father's side, he would diminish his sway in court. Idril was not the only noble in Minas Tirith that mistrusted Thorongil's motives as he had discovered from this girls recount of state dinner conversation. Finduilas' parentage had also reminded of his political support in the south. He was stronger there than here, and would have the advantage. Captain Thorongil had perhaps bested him once, but he would take pains that it would not happen again. His old assurance returned; this foray south was an unexpected setback, but he would turn it to his advantage.

Meanwhile he was growing more impressed with the girl beside him, like a gift from the Valar she had aided him in his time of need. At times her conversation was foolish, but he expected that in one so young. Experience would teach her more prudence and bearing. For the time being she clearly betrayed that she had little desire to reenter the hall. Besides, he was not insensible to flattery, and being so recently stung by neglect and defeat he could ask for no surer balm than the glowing features of this young girl. The company of one who did him true reverence was surely preferable in his current state than a room full of bowing flatterers and scheming upstarts

"I think perhaps, my lady, we might take another turn about the palace. Or, if you wish, I could escort you to your dwelling?"

She turned quickly to him and flushed, "You are too kind my lord, I shall not trouble you further."

"You have been a great comfort to me tonight, it is I who am in your debt. Let me see you safely to your lodging then, as a courtesy to your father."

She then turned from him as she thanked him, but he saw now that he had upset her somehow. He could not discern why and she gave no indication other than to smile tightly and say "You think highly of my father then, Lord Denethor. I am glad for he thinks very highly of you. I have been of service then, though I do not see how it could be. I hope you will seek my assistance in the future if you have need of it, I am ignorant of many things, but I will learn more. I am always trying to learn more."

"To what end my lady?"

"That I might aid my father in his labor, and do more for my people. There are so many things that need looking after in a country, and I am only beginning to notice them."

"You are interested then in leading your people?"

"Oh no, I am interested in helping my people. You are smiling, you must think me very foolish."

"No my lady, I think you are very wise. It is a noble purpose, and well thought of."

"No, it is not well thought of. It is very poorly conceived, there are so many things is this world I know nothing of, I know only my family's housing here and in Belfelas. And I do not even fully understand that."

"You need not concern yourself with much more than that."

"Oh but I must, it seems a great waste to me that my father spends so much time arranging his affairs at home, when I know he prefers to be at sea. I must learn to handle such things for him and beyond that. Imagine what we could achieve if our greatest men were freed from such trivial burdens."

"And that is your desire then, to ease your father's care?"

Then she flushed and hung her head, "No, I admit some of my desires are quite selfish, for I wish to know a great many things that involve little but my own gratification."

"Such as?"

Then she replied in a great rush, "The history of Gondor, the world beyond our walls, its people and animals and what shapes such things. The stars and the sky in the foreign lands… All the things my brother learned and great ladies must neglect in their education in favor of learning how to sew."

And Denethor laughed, "What, would you have the men sew while you ran affairs, that is very childish of you."

And she stopped aghast before she saw the mirth in his eyes and knew that he teased her. But she also took a more serious note and replied, "My father is constantly correcting me for letting these ideas run away with me. It is a flaw of mine to spend my time in such pointless prattle."

"I found it very much to the point my Lady." Then he continued, "Learn as you have been doing to be a formidable lady of the court. That way in the future you can tell me more of what occurs in my absence. In exchange I will tell you of the people and things I encounter in my travels."

She smiled broadly at him, "I would like that very much my Lord. But I hope you will not be traveling soon."

Then he replied, "Very soon. We leave for battle in the morning."

For a moment her face fell, but she soon regained her composure and replied, "Then I will be honored to write you my Lord."

They now had arrived in the second circle, at the house he guessed her to be lodged in, for in front were two men of the watch bearing torches, and a rather frantic nurse. He smiled at the sight, and brought Finduilas to them. "I believe this is your missing Lady."

The nurse for a moment was too surprised to bow, and he used that opportunity to smoothly relinquish the girl. The men on the watch grinned at one another, and the nurse seemed both relieved and exasperated as she bowed and thanked him for escorting her charge home.

He looked closely at the nurse and recognized her from Adrahil's household. Assuming a grimmer aspect he waved the watch away, and they departed. As the torchlight retreated he brought Lady Finduilas' hand to his lips.

"It was a pleasure," he said as he bowed and left. He was back in his own quarters before he realized that it had been.


	6. A Victory

Thanks for the feedback everyone. Had some trouble posting. This is a romance at heart; it's just a strange one. There are several issues the book raised that I wanted to resolve, and so little is written in the books about these characters. Eowyn as I'm sure you Tolkien philes know, was originally for Aragorn, and Boromir was brotherless. Changes a lot doesn't it?

What I would have

Ch VI: A Victory 

The Lady Idril did not last the night, and the lords and ladies who had reveled only hours before now made a long and sad procession to the Silent Street. She had always been to them an intimidating presence, so while there was much reverence for such a skilled diplomat, there was not as much sorrow as was commonly seen in such proceedings. Denethor found himself at times distracted during the ceremony. His gaze often shifted to the crowd of mourners, and a young woman who looked gravely at him. Thorongil was also in attendance, and noted this exchange as well. Finduilas made no outward sign other than to a slight bow of her head, but her heart now began to flutter rather quickly. It was common court knowledge that Lady Idril had formed the political support of the House of Mardil, and that Denethor was most likely to feel her absence. Thorongil as well had proven him open to rivalry, and this had spread much intrigue and division through the nobles.

After the ceremony, which was simple for Gondorian standards, was over; Ecthelion announced the intention of the captains for departure. He used the excuse that the coming war was in Idril's honor, to hide a rather unseemly rivalry that was shaping. Ecthelion had hoped for friendship to form between his captains, but he felt now that competition played out in a healthy way would serve as well. It was with surprise that he had greeted Denethor's announcement at breakfast, and he could tell from his son's demeanor that his will had not prevailed. Unlike many people he saw his son's vanity, and he hoped a little mollification would help. He was displeased at his son's displeasure and he felt now that his own judgment was questioned. He left the matter uncommented on before the funeral and he now set out to mobilize the necessary force. There was some polite clapping, but most of the crowd deemed this a swift and decisive victory for Thorongil, who was known to favor martial expansion. Finduilas, who had been previously warned of this strategy, now made note of those around her, and felt herself happy with this high purpose of serving both her country and so great a Lord.

As the crowd dispersed she was surprised and pleased to find Denethor approaching her.

"I hope you have not forgotten your promise Lady Finduilas."

"Nay Lord, nor will I ask you the same, for I know none of your words are idle."

"There is already much afoot in court, watch well."

"I will my Lord, I hope to hear of your deeds."

Denethor then smiled, "I do much that is uncommented on, listen more for what is said about others- as it concerns me more."

"Then I shall content myself with hearing talk of the victory and knowing in silence of your part."

"There will be a battle, whether or not it is a victory will not likely be decided any time soon. But nevertheless I will send you word myself - that you may depend on the veracity."

At that Finduilas smiled slightly, but her nurse now was agitated that they should appear disrespectful on such an occasion, so the two were parted for that time. Soon her form was blotted from Denethor's view by the shifting black and grey clad forms of the procession.

Denethor found himself that night with Thorongil on a ship bound for the East; they maintained a decorous silence, which neither seemed eager to break. About them the crew of the transport labored and behind them were many like ships. It was a large force that set out for battle, and Denethor now slipped easily into the world he knew best. At first he was irritated by the size of the force, he would never have risked so many companies and the majority of the fleet in such a move. Eventually though his mind was filled with calculations and strategies, unencumbered with thoughts of family, intrigue, or love. His silence was interpreted by most as grief, though in fact it was an escape from it, and they left him alone.

By the next evening they had reached the sea. There the waves crashed against the rush from the mouth of the Anduin and beat white foam. The wind and sea spray spawned innumerable rainbows in the air. The setting sun turned the sea to gold as they struck out, west at first so that they could meet their war fleet from Belfelas. Now the whole company watched with tightened mouths, despite the chaotic beauty of the surroundings, for they were exposed on the ocean without an escort.

Thorongil and Denethor took turns on the watch, but on the third night Thorongil approached Denethor on deck. Denethor ignored him for several minutes but at last nodded an acknowledgement.

"I fear you are displeased with this expedition Lord Denethor."

"No, I am pleased rather, and it was well chosen. The trade routes of the east are wealthy, and the sea is thick with pirates who would shut them completely. An expedition will be valuable in many ways, as well as profitable."

Thorongil flushed a little, "I was thinking of Gondor's safety rather than her coffers."

"Then you ought to know that her coffers are the surest way of securing her safety."

Thorongil paused for a moment and looked out over the starlit night sea, "Lord, I had hoped to find you as a friend, not than an adversary."

Denethor found this reply more irritating than an escalation, for he had hoped to provoke Thorongil to some sort of foolish action, as he himself had suffered. Now he realized that despite the openness of this Thorongil's passions he was not a man to be led by them.

"I am a Lord and the future ruling steward of Gondor, Captain Thorongil. I am nobody's friend."

Thorongil now smiled at him and in a lowered voice replied, "not even to the House of Dol Amroth?"

Denethor now felt more anger than he was accustomed to, he felt on the verge of drawing on Thorongil, who stood in the dark composed and calm as ever. "My interests and allegiances are no concern of yours Captain Thorongil."

But even as he spoke the thought occurred to him that Thorongil might have meant the Prince Adrahil, and not his daughter, and that once again he had given an advantage to his adversary.

"Forgive me Lord, I thought you had spent much time in Belfelas and had high regard for its Prince."

The look in his eyes said otherwise, but behind him like a star there suddenly appeared a light on the sea. Denethor gave the shout and the ship braced for either a glad meeting or a bitter battle.

A flash now stretched across the water, the code of Gondor hailed their friends. Denethor turned to Thorongil as the flagship approached through the moonlight.

"I have great respect for the Lord of Belfelas, you may ask him yourself."

Yet even as he spoke the ship came alongside, and at its helm stood Imrahil.

Imrahil bowed first to Denethor as Lord, then to Thorongil.

"Greetings Lord, I bring the aid requested, though doubtless you will prefer to take command of the ships."

Denethor nodded his assent, but then turned to Thorongil, "are you a skilled mariner, Captain?"

"Seafaring does run in my blood my Lord Denethor"

"Then by all means, we should divide the land assault thus. Let us divide the ships to form a perimeter, and then we may acquaint Imrahil with how we propose to land." Denethor now turned to make introduction, "Prince Imrahil, Lieutenant of Belfelas, meet Thorongil, Captain of Gondor. With your permission he will see to your fleet."

At this Thorongil bowed and began to order the arrangement of the ships. This was done by voice and quietly, so that no stray lights should yield their presence, for they were headed east now and into enemy water.

Imrahil turned to Denethor, "'We' my Lord?"

"Captain Thorongil has taken the initiative on this attack, Lieutenant. Your father would not come?"

"My sister wrote a message to him that arrived with the mobilization orders. After the reading he said he disliked the outright assault, and that he would show his support of you by avoiding your company."

At this Denethor laughed outright, for he felt more kindly disposed towards this overgrown boy, whose youthful form now revealed another in whom he found himself placing increasing trust.

They reached the fortified Island of Tulfalas without incident, and there they received news and supplies. The next landing would be in the far south of Gondor, almost to the border with Harad. There the Haradrim had established a growing port in Gondor's territory. It was a precarious placement, for all necessary supplies had to be imported, and Denethor had thought a small force would at some point starve out the force. Thorongil seemed over anxious to dispose of the port and now would attack with force, and a certain loss of men. Denethor disliked this for many reasons, not the least the fact that families in Gondor were long lived and grew solely, therefore the loss of sons would therefore be more keenly felt.

Two days later the morning light found a strip of grey coast in the distance that gradually grew to golden sand and lush green trees. It also displayed several black sailed ships, and the glinting of far off swords. The port was far more heavily built than Denethor had foreseen. Its high stonewalls glinted with spearmen and it was surrounded by spike embedded stone structures meant for wrecking enemy ships. Denethor, who had already suspected trouble, now felt himself warming to the challenge. Thorongil looked stern but not unduly worried, which Denethor approved of, while Imrahil had gone a bit white.

"We will proceed as planned," Denethor began in a loud voice, "I will take the land assault now and cut in on the flank, I doubt they will be prepared. Take the port seaside if you can Captain Thorongil. Hold in defense lest things go ill, Imrahil"

"Not so! Please Lord," Imrahil blurted out.

Denethor was a bit surprised by this and not at all pleased. He had never had an order questioned in long years of service.

"I wish to fight Lord, not merely move ships between ports."

Thorongil then interceded, "I can manage both naval directions, and your lieutenant from Lebennin can guard our flank."

Denethor was prepared for battle now, and he was angered by the disruption, "You are not Lord here Imrahil- I need a strong commander for the ships, and my tried captains for the assault. It is an order."

The crestfallen Imrahil departed, and Denethor entered a landing boat. With two hundred head of men and horse to land he needed his wits about him. They neared the coast and he saw the error. The dunes concealed archers who now began to fire, and several men went down. A horse was pierced through the flank and began to scream, and it added to a rising feel of panic. He watched as another line prepared to fire and then gave the landing order. The planks were lowered, and men began to disembark- too soon for the water was above the heads of many, and they struggled lest they should drown. Among them now a new ruinous hail of barbed hours struck and the water began to turn red even as they struggled through it. Denethor grabbed an older sergeant, wounded in the shoulder and being weighed under by his armor. He struggled and pulled, as the waves alternately seemed to push him forward, and then stream hissing back at him. He felt his arms weary of their grip, and slowly with a long, terrible, gurgle the man went under. Then the sand gave way unexpectedly and Denethor found himself under the water, blind and breathless. His burning eyes soon revealed the hull of one of the transports bearing down on him, and he sank to avoid it. With convulsing lungs he watched the hull cross over him, blocking the sunlight and casting him in shadow. Beneath him were the dark blue depths of the water, and towards them he sank.

As he sank downward he watched the forces above him, the churning legs of horses and men all engaged in their own breathless fight to live. But less of them struggled now; they were dividing into those who had already reached the shore, and those who never would. Suddenly, unbidden, the vision of an empty throne room crossed his mind. Then he felt his leaden legs kicking, and he rose. Gasping he broke through the surface of the water and into the sparkling white light of the day. A large wave flung him forward, and he felt sand once more under his feet.

Denethor began to run forward through the surf, unimpeded for the archers had pull back to hit the beach, and thus he was in little peril until he gained land. There the soldiers were spread haphazardly, some had lain down the horses to for a barrier, and some had sought the dunes. Once he was on firm sand he made for the nearest horse and all but jerked it to its feet. Still streaming salt water, he pulled himself up and commanded a rear mountilet- an order that brought the cavalry back down onto harder sand and closer to the surf. With almost half his men lost, he now raced those who were horsed a short while up the beach and then in a flank maneuver on the archers. Hardly a shot was fired as they cut through the line, and a shout went up from the men still on the beach.

Denethor now looked upon an advancing line of cavalry and a squad of infantry. The gates of the main fort were nonexistent- they had not foreseen an unexpected land assault. The two cavalry lines met at a rush and the discipline of Gondor showed well. They broke through and were able to round out on the infantry. Denethor himself caught the captain of the fort and they fought a brief duel ere he all but cut off the man's head with a swift change of his sword hand. The infantry of the beach, which contained a fair number of pikemen now filled out his small force. Still he was dubious of attacking the actual workings of the fort. He could see a fair number of men on the walls and two small trebuchets launching flaming shot. It was the later that urged him to charge. Even as his line formed and swept down upon the battlements he saw something in the corner of his eye. There was an entire black fleet where there had been but a handful of ships. They had sailed into a trap.

The cavalry of Gondor entered the fort, foremost attacking the crews launching the shot. Bowmen opened fire from above and several grey clad knights went down before the lower walls were captured. Even before they were secure Denethor sent a man to the wall to call down positions while he stationed others to guide and load the trebuchets. For a few minutes they launched unimpeded upon the black fleet, then a tremendous hail of arrows turned the sky dark. Denethor felt a sharp pain as one entered the flesh of his arm and stuck. Nevertheless he immediately ordered the lines drawn and cups loaded, for he knew they were taking fire now from the ships. Then his men on the wall gave a load cheer.

Denethor went to a slotted window and watched the silver fleet of Belfelas take out yet another ship. The fort had hit two directly and they burned with their crew. Despite the swift surprise assault the fleet of Gondor had so far not lost a single ship save for two beached transports. He saw now that several of the transports had come about and were offering fire in defense of the battle fleet. Still the black ships had a slight advantage in numbers. Denethor grew angry as Thorongil brought his ship up in pursuit. They had lost too many men. Sprinting to the top of the tower he began to dip the flag in orders. The fleet was to stand down.

Thorongil for his part seemed to not notice for some time. Two more ships of Umbar were ruinously boarded and the rest took flight before he called an end to the action. Imrahil had come to his assistance, and they had captured three ships of the enemy fleet. Denethor, livid at not being obeyed, saw Thorongil and Imrahil talking before each went back to commanding their ships, and he waited for them on the beach for a long while before they landed.

Denethor's arm smarted from the wound, but the barb had missed the main muscles, going cleanly through. With a sinking feeling he drew it, and bent to bathe the wound in the sea. About him men now labored to pull fallen comrades to the shore, and there he directed a long trench dug. One by one the swiftly stiffening men were dragged to the pit and slid soundlessly down on top of each other. They salvaged the mail and armor and Denethor noted with anger that most had died in the water, encumbered by non-fatal wounds and later pulled down by their own gear. It was the single biggest loss of life so far in his career. Though he was never highly excited during battle or after, he was angered at this. He viewed this loss as a result of Thorongil's will prevailing, little counting that he had ordered the man with the best knowledge of the sea to stay out of the landing altogether.


	7. The Coming War

What I would have 

Ch VII: The Coming War

The next morning was brilliant and hot. A mound of darkened sand hid the previous day's carnage, and the waves sparkled and flashed as they innocently lapped at the shore. There was no shade, and almost no water fit to drink. The early golds and pinks of morning would soon shift to a glaring and unremitting white. In the distance, a smudge of browned greenery attested to the scarcity of resources. On the whole Denethor did not favor a settlement here, there was no advantage worth the cost. He could, however, see using the materials to strengthen their outposts further inland- where the land was more fertile. He would propose it, but for the time being he sat with his back against the wrecked battlements and complied a long list of casualties.

Soon over the dry scratching of his pen and the mournful crying of gulls, he heard the steady tread of men approaching. He looked up to see both Thorongil and Imrahil before him. They had landed early, and he barely had time to nod his recognition to their bows before Thorongil spoke.

"Why do we tarry here? Their fleet escapes."

Denethor snorted in disgust, "We have taken the port, and as I intend to leave it, it is unlikely they will be able to rebuild. Let them go home, they will not return for many long years."

Thorongil leaned forward on his sword, "We shall have to fight them later if we do not now. The wind favors us, as does our victory. They are dismayed, if we pursue now we might…"

At that Denethor interrupted, "You err too much in this Captain. Pursuit will cost me more than I am willing to spend."

As if in mute testimony the papers in his hand shifted in a slight breeze, the names of the dead filling solemn black rows. Yet Thorongil was unwilling to back down, "The cost will be too great if we do not pursue now. Think of the future battles to be avoided rather than on our losses. The men are willing."

"Nay. Go yourself in pursuit, I will cut you a long boat, but I have no intention of crossing these borders."

Ignoring the insult, Thorongil persisted, "It is a naval advantage, why not rid ourselves of this threat while we can?"

"And how do you know the Navy of Umbar is not moored in the next bay?

"It would be all the better if it were, we have men enough, given our luck holds."

"I do not risk the future of Gondor and its allies on luck, Captain. That will be all. The ships shall be readied for departure- back to port mind you. Since you love the sea so much I leave preparation of the fleet with you. Imrahil shall assist you."

Then a long and ominous silence fell, almost as though a storm was descending upon the clear day, and Imrahil glanced from one to the other nervously. Denethor, wounded and angered, drew back his shoulders and glared into the face of Thorongil. But Thorongil quickly looked at the sea and nodded, "When shall you wish to depart by?"

Denethor considered, "I want to make ready provision for the crossroads and send a company to strengthen our garrison there. I will send our fighting men from the fleet. I do not think we shall have to fear attack for sometime by sea"

With that Thorongil bowed and departed, he walked quickly along the beach, as though he were still angered. Denethor made note of his pace with a slight satisfaction that quickly died. The calm of the morning had passed, replaced by hot desert starkness. The reek from the new graves was now beginning to rise, and made a poor match to the sparkling morning. His arm was bound, but now ached dully. He had a swift decision to make, whether the port was worth fortifying, or whether he should demolish it and leave. He had little strategic use for such as this. He rose painfully to his feet, still sore from his exertions from the day before. His conscious demanded that even the timber be salvaged if it could, but all must be done swiftly. The water casks in the ships now would have to last for the entire journey, and that left him with little time. He was a little surprised to see that Imrahil had not followed Thorongil, but rather stood beside him.

"Did you not hear my command Lieutenant?"

Imrahil nodded, then hesitantly replied, "forgive me my lord, but you are wounded, perhaps…"

"It is nothing," Denethor quickly replied, feeling slightly chagrined. "Now I need you on ship lest Thorongil decides to start swimming south with a dagger in his teeth."

At that Imrahil smiled and made as though to depart when he paused, "Do not judge him too harshly my Lord, he is great in battle."

Denethor was momentarily silent with astonishment at this but soon found his voice, "I have marked that Imrahil."

Imrahil took a step closer now to Denethor, and the later noted that they now stood almost equal in height. "I could have fought my Lord. But forgive my disrespect in not directly obeying your order."

Denethor smiled somewhat grimly, "It is the luck of the battle, I took no offense, and if it pleases you, I can promise you will have many more opportunities to fight."

At that Imrahil bowed and departed. With the exhilaration of light-hearted youth he ran down the beach. Sand went spurting from his boots, and at times the shifting sands made his gait precarious. Denethor watched him go. He was annoyed at the childish behavior. A little more decorum was expected of a midshipman and soldier of Gondor, but the urge to reprimand the swiftly disappearing figure was quenched by a sudden feeling of gratitude that he had denied the boy's request to be in the landing party. He was alive to run over the sand instead of lying under it. Denethor realized not all of his decisions yesterday had been wrong.

* * *

Denethor climbed the hill early on the second morning with two of his scouts. Behind him came two companies of downcast men. Excited by the prospect of the raid they had easily been recruited for departure from Minas Tirith. They now faced a two-year term at the outposts. Some of them in the far back were cursing their luck, particularly those assigned to drag the timber. It was another day's hard journey to the coastal road and oasis. The sand was treacherous and as hot as baking bread. Denethor looked back over the company, and then ahead at the hilltop. He wanted to check both on their fleet and destination, but at the moment he pressed his scouts to hurry merely at the prospect of a breath of air. They were not disappointed. While near the summit a whispered breath of saltwater reached them, and they breathed deeply in this barren land at the smell of the far off sea. Ahead the fort was ready, and the fleet behind was in order. Denethor felt satisfaction loosen the muscles of his neck. He would soon be journeying back to Minas Tirith. There was something about the desert though that struck him coldly, even as the sun blazed upon his mail. There was nothing permanent here. Even the hills changed and melted before his eyes. The rock formations ahead seemed distant and vague. There was vastness here that made him feel desolate.

While he tarried on the summit Denethor found a cluster of desert blooms. In that hot sun they glowed a brilliant blue, like a hot flame. They were a rarity in the north, for they craved heat but needed little water to thrive. After a moment's thought he cut one and pressed it, he wrote its name, and where he had obtained it, and described the general area and life of the plant. He added perhaps a little too much poetry for the flower to ever be taken seriously, but at the time he was not conscious of doing so. It fit the wideness of the sky, and the brilliance of the day.

* * *

Late that evening he had reached Gondor's southern most outpost. It stood by an oasis and a small trading town. The traders there had spices and cloths many coveted, but the prices were high, and Gondor must need sent all food and supplies for its men stationed here over land. Denethor had long sought to close this outpost, for it was expensive and little in worth save as a window to the southeast. The people there tended to be cruel and used beasts and men in a brutal manner. The outpost had an ill effect on those stationed to it, and many fell in with the people around them and were corrupted by them. Yet it was also a place for trade, and a method to allow for the redemption of captives. Sometimes a slave of Numenorean blood was recovered, either by coin or by their own arts escaped; and for that reason it was a popular post within the politics of Gondor.

The already tired men were set to work putting the materials in order. Few had the heart after the journey to set about on these new tasks, and Denethor in turn cajoled and threatened. It was on the dawn of the third day when he saw a horse coming from the coast, and as it drew nearer the rider hailed him.

Drenched in sweat the mount all but sat down as it was reined in. The young rider Denethor recognized as Hirgon, a scout of one of the few companies of Minas Tirith that had been extended to this expedition.

"My Lord," the man gasped. "I bring warning from the tower on the coast that several battalions of Harad are coming up the road. The can be seen for miles up the desert, indeed when they pass the hills you shall see their dust yourself."

"Is that all you bring, word?"

"Captain Thorongil has mustered the seaside companies. He sails to the south to cut their supplies and draw their wrath. Imrahil rides now to thy aid."

Denethor felt his heart lurch. "And what did he think to do with several hundred against thousands? Under whose command did he take the fleet?"

Hirgon seemed puzzled by the answer, "His own my lord, is he not commander of the fleet?"

Denethor clasped his sword hilt feeling so desperate he almost laughed, "Has he already sailed?"

Hirgon wheeled his mount around, "That I do not know, my lord."

Then slapping the horse Denethor cried, "Bring them back! Ride swifter than an eagle, we cannot hold this force alone. We need him. By all the Valar, we need those men here!"

Hirgon disappeared in a spurt of sand as Denethor cried, "make ready in the fort, bring in all posts to depart."

Already beyond weary, the companies now quickly shuffled into order, and yet Denethor disliked to yield anything unfought. The little town and fort had sprung to life at his orders. The sight of the men comforted him, all ready to battle, putting off ill-humor and weariness, ever dutiful as men of Gondor. He had thought to make a wedge and an orderly retreat to the ships. Perhaps, he thought, they could hold this outpost. It was unlikely the men of Harad came in revenge of the fleet. More likely this assault was long in the planning, and they were working together. Every passing year brought more muster and might against Gondor, and few to aid. If the south was mobilizing than the outposts here must strengthen. He would not yield their border without making the enemy pay dearly.

Denethor walked back towards the town, taking stock of the field. It appeared smooth, but it was mainly sand; it would be hard to run across, archer volleys could do good work here. A stray chicken ran out of the gates shrieking long and shrill, but aside from the furtive whisperings and planning for those preparing to flee, a dreadful silence had now begun to fall on the fort.

* * *

In the dawn the watch was silent and still, though far above a desert bird wheeled and with its sharp cry heralded a grim morning. Men cursed it without looking up, for it spoke of battle and death. Then the watch cried aloud. The first host espied on the road had come from the seaside. Soon, Thorongil drew into sight with several lines of cavalry, the last from the ships. The horses near collapse and coated in lather, they approached in great haste. In the rear guard the banner of Dol Amroth fluttered proudly over the guards of the ships, all armed and equipped. Then the men blessed their appearance, for it seemed a sizeable host, and they knew not the extent of their peril.

When Thorongil had neared the gate Denethor walked out to greet him thus, "what was this news of the fleet moving?"

Thorongil returned his gaze levelly, "I have moved them a half mile up the coast, where they are hidden from scouts of the enemy."

"Do you not think our time for concealment is passed?"

"I hoped to secure the ships, thus sparing us many men."

"To do what with, shall we fight a good 5000 with 500, and did you think 50 more would suffice?" Denethor asked angrily

Thorongil stared at him coolly, "It must."

Denethor turned away, "Verily, it must."

Thorongil, almost as though speaking to himself, quietly noted, "They must pass through the hills, our fleet is safe, and with these extra men we can cause them much harm before they close on the fort."

Denethor gestured towards the hills in anger "This is beyond folly. Order your men into lines. We will wait in the fort. We will not win this battle by strength."

There was a moment of shocked silence. Denethor for the first time in his life found not a single man moved. Rather, they turned to Thorongil. Denethor felt a black rage rise in him, "Order your men into lines. Bring all the extra wood down to fifty paces in front and strengthen the town wall."

Thorongil gave a nod and then men exploded into action around him, but he himself stood still and drawing very close to Denethor said softly, "Is this your plan then. To sit and do nothing until the armies of the south are upon us?"

Denethor replied with a tight smile. "That is right captain, we wait." Then he drew a breath, and looked about him, ignoring Thorongil's presence. A town half fortified, surrounded by plains, with two leagues distance to hills of sand, and beyond that a haze, the dust of marching feet. No water, one town well, and a wooden and stone palisade. This location was meant to defend against stray raiding parties, not withstand a siege.

* * *

He walked through the wooden fence, measuring and taking stock. Within the walls was chaos, about him frightened women and children gathered to flee. The news of the enemy advance had outpaced even his swift walk to the fort. Children scurried and parents hustled to put possessions onto wains. Meanwhile Denethor was thinking, he felt no fear or surprise now, only the usual strategy of battle, if nothing else there was somewhat of a thrill like a man might experience at reading a clever riddle. He had to fortify an area on flat land, with little more to work with than sand.

Denethor suddenly turned to Imrahil, "Take those wains and turn them, we will make barricades"

Imrahil paused, "My lord, the women and children, they will be trapped."

At that Hirgon broke in, "There is not enough water as it is lord, we cannot win a siege here, there will be no aid for weeks at the soonest."

Denethor laughed faintly, for in his mind now was a plan, "I do not intend to have a siege. Find Thorongil, I have a battle for him."

As Hirgon left to find the captain, Imrahil broke in, "We fight then, and leave them to be slaughtered after?"

Denethor spoke as he walked, and as he walked he counted off paces. "They will be dead should they leave now, and whence to? Put them in the fort, we will build a redoubt there. 90 paces by 70, forming a triangle, use the wains and the possessions, no cloth: we do not want to burn."

"And if the redoubt should fall?"

"Then we need have no worry for provisions." With that Denethor stalked away.

* * *

By midmorning his plan was shaping, and he took the most tried warriors for the outer wall, for he needed careful timing from them, as well as discipline. Within the redoubt he placed another fifty in lines with bows, and spears at need. Archers lined the palisade, but half of them positioned behind the fort wall, out of sight save by those in the fort. Within the walls men now labored to build smaller barriers, shoulder high, mainly of grain sacks from the provision, and furniture of the houses. Spikes were cut and placed at the end of these and a passage left that only a few riders at a time could pass through. Thorongil stood with a company of knights on the horses, still jaded from their ride across the desert. Imrahil stood on the forts tower with a herald. Suddenly, he dropped his hand in signal, though it was scarcely needed. There came sounds at a distance, echoing through the hills like the beating of many drums. The sound of thousands moving, the army of Harad had come.

Then through the hills and dunes many banners came streaming, bearing the symbols of that kingdom, and many a warrior, fell in appearance, with cruelly curved swords. They approached slowly at first since they had suspected ambush from the hills, now they gained the plain and saw the town was little protected, and they shouted in bloodlust. A sortie broke forward of a few hundred, while about a quarter of the troops flanked out on either side, they were mainly cavalry, and they were horsed or on ugly southron beasts of great size.

Then from the gates issued the standard of Gondor, with fifty horse, and at their lead was Thorongil. The sable of Gondor was stark on the brilliant sand, and the company was silent. A loud jeer broke from the men of Harad at the sight. The company of Gondor halted close to the fort, tight packed. The sight of so slight an adversary spurred the Haradrim on. The first line was met squarely by Gondor in a rush. Hot horse to horse, yet the wind of the desert stifled the sound of their cries, and almost silently the steel met and men fell. Then suddenly the line of Gondor broke, and they began to gallop towards the town. The two wings of Harad now collapsed at the rout. On towards the gates they raced, with the men of Gondor scarcely holding ahead of their adversaries. A sigh went up from the town's defenders, yet many stood rooted, as though watching a race at a fair. The gates of the town were still open, though one was in motion, and like one unit, friend and foe alike thundered forward.

The sable of Gondor flashed through the gate, mixed with a few of the colorfully arrayed horses of Harad, then a whole column of Haradrim flooded through the gates, and the men at them fled and sought cover. The Captain of Harad gave a great shout as they burst into the town, for it seemed the battle was all but won, yet the flood of Harad was still confined between two streets, and as hundred now swept into the small space those behind pushed ever forward. They packed into the little town, yet their foes had disappeared, and on either side were walls their mounts balked at.

Then from all the inner walls came arrows a deadly hail from all sides. Some riders tried to turn back, but their own men pushed them forward. And those who attempted to dismount and scale the walls found them defended by spear point. The leaders of the column spurred their horses forward, seeking their enemy, and found themselves exiting the town in back; there Thorongil had regrouped and the battle was fiercely met. Most of the Haradrim from the first assault though were now caught in the inner walls of the town and the arrows rained upon them. They trampled their own wounded and hacked at each other in desperation. In short time, there were few of the initial attack alive. And their comrades drew back in dismay to receive new orders.

The gates now were closed firmly. A cheer went up from the town. Thorongil had lost only a few men, and was unscathed. They dismounted once they reentered, for their horses were spent, and all men were needed to clear the dead, and recover arrows. Meanwhile the tower was preparing to fire on the next assault when it should come. Thorongil climbed the short flight where he found Imrahil, and Denethor who had commanded the inside walls.

Imrahil was jubilant, "More than 300 dead or wounded, and we have yet to lose more than a score of men."

Denethor could not help muttering, "Yes, and only about 4000 to go."

Thorongil equipped an infantry shield. "Yes and now they will attack the walls. With fire I do not doubt."

Denethor smiled, "No neither do I, but ere the nightfall we shall instruct them heavily in war."

Then like a tide a much larger force approached. They filled the plain from the hills towards the town like a river in flood. Imrahil held fire for a long time, but finally the volleys hummed over the heads of the captains and fell upon the men of Harad. Volley after volley came upon them, and the men fell, but they did not stop their march, nor hasten it, and now two more columns of cavalry entered the plain, but held back. A third branched off towards the west, there was to be no escape by sea.

The main infantry of the enemy, bearing torches, began to rush towards the city. Many never reached shouting distance; the arrows of Gondor were thick in the air. Now the infantry were upon the walls, and Imrahil in the center tower was left to follow Denethor's plan. Bitterly the walls were contested, yet the men of Harad brought fire, and the wood was soon ablaze. Yet Gondor held on, and every inch was bitterly fought. Harad pulled back to regroup, having lost almost one in three, and Gondor of its best fighters only a few dozen.

* * *

Now Thorongil and Denethor met at the gate, where they knew the next assault would come, and where the last desperate strategy would be played should the gate be breached. So far the battle had progressed as Denethor had hoped, they had led their enemy into a trap, and now in anger they fought wildly. Had they stopped to plan, their sheer numbers would soon overwhelm, but Denethor resolved to keep them in hot anger, and attacking blind. Yet for every trap and feign they must yield ground, and this next assault would to be the decisive one, for they could afford no more ground.

Denethor laid a hand on the weather beaten and scorched line of wood and said, "It will break swiftly"

Thorongil turned his eyes skyward at sun, which was beginning to lower. Denethor frowned and noted that night would soon come, it hurt their archers' odds, yet not by much if they were to be fighting in such close quarters. Denethor had to admit there was great comfort in Thorongil's presence, for he could not command the walls alone, and he knew the man was a match for him in battle, and soon they would be cleaved from the center, and the lives of their men would depend on their ability to reach the redoubt.

He felt almost affection then for this man beside him, who had followed his plan and fought so valiantly, yet showed neither fear nor weariness. Yet here still was a rival, and did not his worth in battle show how much of a rival he was? So words of kindness died in Denethor's throat, it was Thorongil who spoke, "move swiftly, when the wall comes, the horn may not be clear in the battle."

"And you as well" Denethor replied. Then there was a roar, and the final assault began.

With fury the infantry of the Haradrim approached, they were undisciplined but numerous, and they fought now to avenge comrades and honor. They used oils with their flames, and liquid fire poured over the gates. It ran the length of walls and enveloped them. Denethor thrust and parried, his shield shuddered like a drum as blows fell upon it, then faintly he heard the retreat blown. "Back, back," he cried, but his men heeded him not in the din, and around him the flames roared.

Imrahil saw the front gates burst and the men there dismayed. This time was no false weakness, but the fear of a trap did make the enemy pause. It bought them precious minutes, and he flagged the retreat while the herald blew the horn call. The wooden tower shuddered beneath him as he raced down the steps, there gathered at the base were the few civilians of the town. They crouched under tents of soaked cloth and dirt in hopes of turning flame. Mere feet away stood the last line of men, a third of their force, fresh and yet unfought. And each one arranged in rows of bowmen. At the sound of the horns they began to move into formation. At that moment the men from the outer wall ran to the front of the redoubt, and there formed a last wall of men. Thorongil formed the shield wall, and he leaned back to see Imrahil above him, but of Denethor there was no sign.

With a terrible cry the lines of Harad took the outer walls and streamed forward. They raced the length of the streets to the tower in their hundreds. And there five lines of archers began to open fire, line after line, as soon as Imrahil could command it shoot, and the men of Harad laid down and died. Those carrying fire fell and burned, and all was confusion. The setting sun turned the sky red above them, and the blood ran over the ground. Imrahil could hear the children behind him crying, mere inches from his back; and only feet away a swart soldier, screaming in rage, only to pitch forward with an arrow to the chest. The line directly in front fired over the head of the outer shield wall and ever a new archer line was ready with bent bow, and yet lines of men replaced each fallen foe.

Then Imrahil saw Denethor, trapped on a burning roof where he had left the wall with the remainder of the men. They had laid planks into a makeshift bridge, and it seemed that by passing over the roofs in this manner, they would regain the redoubt. The flames raged about him, yet he kept his men in order, several were guarding their retreat while others battled forward towards the last line. At the sight Thorongil began to move forward, but Denethor fiercely motioned him back to the wall. Even so, at the sight of their lord and comrades, men of his company from Minas Tirith began to make a foray to aid them. Hirgon lead them in a wedge towards the nearest building, by which several of the men had begun to leap and in this manner approach the tower walls and security. Yet the redoubt itself was now beginning to splinter: some desiring to aid Denethor, some in despair at the never ending assault. Imrahil fought to hold the line, ordering the men to stand.

Denethor then saw the confusion of his men. He glanced at the plank bridge they had constructed. The men of Harad were already pursuing atop the roofs, bearing torches. Soon they would be near enough to fire the tower. He paused for a moment. It was hot on top of the roof where he stood, and he could feel the flames from the nearby wall. His armor was hot to the point of burning, and the cries of the dying rose around him, yet at that moment he felt no fear for his safety, only great wrath that his carefully planned battle was unraveling before his eyes. He turned towards the wall of the redoubt and took measure of their defenses. It stood still, they had arrows enough, they now fought on three sides, but Thorongil held the wall, and they did not waver on the south or east. Only his side, the west side, was weak; unable to completely form due to their trapped comrades, and now crumbling in an attempt to aid those same men. Denethor's face set, and the flames around him burned in his eyes, he turned briefly towards his men, and his face was stern as stone. Imrahil watched in disbelief as Denethor kicked down the boards. The men with their lord were trapped on the roof, and all hope of rescue from their comrades removed. The boards fell with a clatter to the ground and then a poisonous black smoke blew up and hid them from sight.

Yet the reek was taking its toll on Harad too. The smoke of the fires made all almost blind. And many men simply ran into the spears of Gondor, not sighting them or their peril in the murk. Half the town was aflame, yet the devices of the enemy proved there more ruinous to themselves, for the arrows kept them at bay, and the flames created great reek and confusion. The horses of the cavalry, alarmed by the shrieks from the panicked horses of Gondor, threw their rides or balked at the charge. The infantry withdrew and those who fought on climbed up layers of their slain comrades. The hateful night wore on, and at last Gondor had but few arrows, and the men now held the line by spear point only.

On the rooftop nearby Denethor watched the battle unfold beneath him. At times the reek from the burning structures would wash over him, and he would cast himself down in search of breath. It was like drowning; only everywhere was the heavy and hot blackness. Occasionally men would attempt to climb across the roofs, and then he met the enemies he could find with sword. Spears were thrust up through the lower levels as he fought, but none found their target. Eventually though he was able to grab a spear beneath its point, then he grappled with an unseen foe, but was able to pull the pole up and get possession of it. He made his way to the corner of the building where some of his soldiers were shooting at those with fire in the city. Even as they fired, stray arrows from the enemy fell about them. Denethor wiped his hand across his stinging eyes. Half of the company, about thirty, now remained.

Now the flames were in their building as well, and there were no longer spears from below, only ominous tendrils of smoke, and an ever increasing heat. Denethor worked the edge of the spear into the side of the roof, where it formed a sort of pole dangling down towards the ground. The jump itself was unseen through the smoke. He turned to the man nearest him, black with soot, and motioned him down. For a moment wild eyes gazed into his, then the discipline of a soldier took over, and the man cast himself over the edge. Gradually they descended the length of the spear and dropped until Denethor alone was left, and then he jumped into the black reek below.

He hit the ground hard and for a moment was winded, then a hand helped him up. The remnants of his company crouched low to avoid the smoke, and he signed they should head for the outer wall. There they fought in silence, for their enemy did not suspect that any yet lived upon the wall, and they were able to make their way to the broken gate, and prop it closed.

There were small battles fought through the night, under an orange glow, and the whole world seemed to be red and black. Yet dawn came, a grim dawn, and finally only the crackling of fire was heard. Denethor made his way down the brief street to the redoubt, where it still stood. Men now labored to clear a path through the dead, and recover their own. The sable of Gondor still flew above the city, charred but defiant. At the top of the tower Thorongil stood, fair and thoughtfulas he looked south. Even as he watched there came a group of riders from the west, and he saw them ride towards the largest group of the remaining Haradrim. Less than half the host remained there still, but Gondor had no strength remaining to match. As Denethor mounted the steps of the tower he saw the men of Harad form in lines. Then he lifted a sword in defiance, but even as he did so they rode south into the hills, and were gone.

* * *

Denethor met Thorongil coming down the stairs, he was wounded about the chest and arm, but lightly. He guessed from Thorongil's reaction that he was no pleasant sight to behold either.

"So they found not our fleet, and unsure of our numbers will depart." Denethor surmised. "As was your design."

"Your plans were well crafted; yours is the victory, " Thorongil responded.

"Yet if we had fought them at sea," Denethor mused, "but the decision has been made, for good or ill." Then he faltered and swayed.

"You are wounded," Thorongil said, grasping his arm. There Denethor saw that his wound of several days ago had reopened, but beneath that the flesh itself had burned. With a sick feeling he peeled off his boots and hauberk, the flesh there was red and blistered. Though he felt faint at the sight, he realized that he felt little of his wounds. Still he was in command, and haste was still needed from his men. There would be time to rest later.

"I am not in pain," he snapped, "leave me."

But Thorongil lifted him and placed his unwounded arm over his shoulder, and bore him back down the steps. There the wounded were being tended by women and a few ship's healers, with such things as were at disposal. There was almost no water, and Denethor then strongly wished for a drink. The streams of Ithilien, fragrant with pine, flashed through his memory.

"Is there any water?" he heard his voice asking, and marveled at the weak rasping sound.

"I have ordered it to the hospital tent." Thorongil replied.

"Of course" Denethor answered.

"I will fetch you some," Thorongil said as he eased him to the ground.

"No," rasped Denethor, "no, I am alright." He sat for a moment, and the world grew clearer. He was aware now that a great many men were gazing at him, as were the people of the town. Pride made him regain his feet, though the world swam.

"Do we have casualty lists?"

"Imrahil is making them." Thorongil replied. Then he started to say more, but thought better of it, and left Denethor. The people around gazed at the fell lord, but none would meet eyes with his, so terrible did he appear. About Thorongil they now clustered for directions and to give praise, but when he approached they almost seemed to shrink, as though he himself had been the author of the evils that had befallen them. He limped out of the town then, and rested himself alone against the wall, gazing south over a plain littered with dead.

* * *

By midmorning the well was back in use, and after drinking Denethor felt his head was clearer, unfortunately that made his feet and legs burn. He was in agony, and could have lain down and howled were he not a lord of Gondor. Instead he forced himself to walk the length of the town and fort, and give counsel and direction. He strove not to limp in the sight of the others but he yearned for a reason to stay still awhile, and it was with relief that he found Imrahil on the far ramparts. The damage was less than he had thought. Less than half the town was lost, and even the gate could be repaired. They would leave more men here than had previously been stationed, and due to their attempt at flight, few had lost precious possessions or provender. It was a miraculous victory, yet as he stood on the smoldering wood, smarting from wounds, and watched yet another pit being dug, it did not feel as such.

Imrahil approached him then and bowed, "My lord, 'tis wondrous."

Denethor turned with bloodshot eyes and watched Imrahil's face fall, "Our losses?"

"138, of those forty were new recruits."

Denethor nodded, "And the enemy?"

"Almost two thousand."

They stood for a while in silence on the ruined wall. The men now worked for the fifth day with little rest, to clear the bodies before disease should set under the blazing sun. Denethor knew that they would need to leave for the ships soon, to send reinforcements and to reach safe harbor before their stores were gone. He was weary though of dark looks, and sand, and the smell of corpses.

He turned to Imrahil at his side, beckoning him to follow as they made their way back to the center of the fort. He knew he should soon give yet another unpopular order, and ask even more of these men. With an effort he turned his mind aside to what he felt would be smaller topics, "Well, now that you have fought such a battle, how do you like it?"

Imrahil turned his head away, "it makes me ill."

Denethor laughed, "That will wear off."

Imrahil turned to him then, "I should hope not." He gestured towards the dead in the street, "These men had names and homes. They will not return, and yet I am unscathed."

Denethor replied "And if you now filled a pit you would feel better? You have to be alive to be ill."

Imrahil's eyes flashed, "I told you what you asked, my lord. Of all things I beheld here there was nothing I disliked more than the sight of you…" and he paused, unable to continue.

"The sight of me, how so?" replied Denethor wrathfully.

"Imrahil turned again, "How could you? You left those men to die, to burn. You stayed to burn yourself, and forbade us from aiding you!"

"When you undertake to command, Imrahil, you make those decisions for yourself and others as well." Denethor replied, but now he began to understand the men's recent behavior.

'To burn within sight of your succor? Did you think we would not have aided you, had you but left the boards up…" Imrahil began

Denethor interrupted curtly, "Then we might have lost, the lives of some men are not worth the whole battle. On myself alone is the battle laid, and I was willing to pay that price."

Imrahil said nothing more, but he shuddered and turned away.

* * *

Later he stood alone and watched the men sleep. They slept in heavy exhaustion, and he wished to join them, but he knew he must be prepared to leave in the morning, and faintly he heard the scratching of Denethor's pen as he wrote out orders for the fort. Imrahil shuddered at the memory of how Denethor had begun to burn on the roof, his armor blackening, and one arm hanging useless; yet he treated this night like all others. Imrahil sighed and turned to see Thorongil.

"Something bothers you Imrahil, why do you not sleep?"

"I have never seen a man decide to die thus."

"Denethor? I do not think he thought he would die, and he has not."

"But you would have tried to aid him, I saw you begin to go to them."

"If I could, despite that he forbade it? Then yes, I myself would have gone if I could have, but likewise a man must take his chances in battle, and the line would not have held had we withdrawn any more men."

"I'm not sure if I could." Imrahil continued then stopped.

Thorongil laid a hand on his shoulder, "die?"

"Nay, that I could do, even horribly thus; but to make that decision fro those other men. And he did, as though it were nothing, and he behaves as though it were nothing now."

Thorongil shook his head, "he has been long afield. It is not the first time he has made such orders."

Imrahil shook his head again, "even so, I could not leave my kinsman to… to suffer that! Not if there were any other choice, no matter how desperate."

Thorongil sighed, "He is valiant, and despite what you see he does suffer both in thought and mind."

"I admired him," Imrahil began, his voice cracking with youth and emotion, "I admired him for being such a soldier, but now I cannot. He does not fight with the valor that other men have- with honest hopes and fears. He fights with a heart of stone. He knows no fear because he knows no care."

Thorongil scanned the wall in the distant night, checking on the watch, then he continued, "I have also noted that he is stern. Sterner than he needs to be, and the men fear him for it. Yet Gondor has need for such a man, and that in itself troubles me." Then they parted each lost in thought: Thorongil to the walls, and Imrahil to a troubled sleep.

* * *

Several weeks later the grateful ships of Gondor returned to the mouth of the river. There they prepared to go their separate ways. Denethor, though still wounded, refused to return home. He realized now that more strength was needed in the south. He stood on the deck of the flagship with Thorongil. He did not doubt that he would make a grand entrance back to Minas Tirith, and win the credit for the battle. But beyond his own glory and safety was a different thought present in his mind: that had not been a battle or border skirmish, it was a growing war. Against such a war he would now build and work, and he saw much that needed to be done. Thorongil accepted his absence from Minas Tirith as a peace offering, and he bade Denethor a courteous farewell as the ships separated. Into his hands Denethor placed his dispatches and reports, the ration tallies, new plans for the fort, casualty and supply lists, and the letter containing a flower for the daughter of Adrahil. 


	8. In Starlight

What I Would Have

VIII In Starlight

Over the next several fortnights, Denethor labored in the south of Gondor, yet as he did so he collected small stones, birds' feathers, seeds and cuttings. By the time he had reached the Anduin and met again with Imrahil he had received a reply of thanks from Finduilas, and the news that Thorongil was blamed in the city for the losses. As time passed, he recorded new songs and poems he chanced upon, and sometimes just a brief message describing the land about him as he gazed under strange stars at a foreign sea. He sent along all that he thought might amuse her, and it pleased him to think of her reaction to the small gifts he sent. The land about him seemed livelier and more pleasing, since he could well see in his mind's eye her reaction to it.

He labored now by himself, and no new campaigns were planned out of Minas Tirith. Denethor enjoyed the building up of towns, and the scouting parties. His mind and hands were busy, and his rival for the time silent. His wounds quickly healed, and men's hearts healed towards him as well, for he even welcomed the company of men he once scorned, since it might chance that one would have a joke or tale that he could transcribe for her. It pleased him now to imagine her response, that strange enchanting laughter, the memory of which grew stronger instead of waning as the years passed. Men noted the change in him, and thought it good. For though many still held him as severe, it seemed to them now that he acted more like the men around him, and the men of Gondor saw he could take pleasure in more than politics and battle. Thus did the thoughts of Finduilas, during that time of weary and uneasy peace, serve him well.

In return he received notes by her has well, tentative at first, expressing little more than appreciation for his own messages, then exploding with questions, and eventually observations of her own. Now without even quite intending he would find in his possession some gaily colored silk, or some curiosity or another, which would serve as a present only for her. It was mysterious how often he would find in his saddlebags a little silver bracelet from Rohan, or a box of sweet confections from the south with little recollection of how he acquired them. In time though her replies also frequently warned that someone new had his father's ear. An old man, or perhaps two old men had been to visit him. Some said it was only one, and others claimed there was a second who had come once. But by all accounts Thorongil was familiar with the one who stayed, and who now sat by the seat of Ecthelion.

* * *

As the years went by Denethor seldom came to Minas Tirith, but ever from abroad he lessened Thorongil's sway. His plan seemed simple enough. Thorongil favored ever expanding lands and influence for Gondor, and Denethor suspected it was eventually to aid some lost band of rabble in the north. He took slight pleasure in redirecting funds for recruitment into docks in the south, and other minor frustrations. Gondor was still too quiet to suit Thorongil, but despite his efforts it saw too much growth to suit Denethor. In this way each continued to frustrate the designs of the other.

Duty in the form of a letter from the Steward now returned Denethor to Minas Tirith, and his father seemed little changed. Ecthelion seemed pleased that the rivalry between his captains was now couched in more friendly and mature terms. He praised each for their activities. Denethor noted however, that besides his father's chair stood a new figure, bent and with a long beard. He was dressed in grey, like a beggar or peasant, but his clothes were finely made and clean. There was a power that radiated from this man. Like a strong fire it pushed forth from him, filling the room. But it was his eyes that made Denethor pause and almost step back. His eyes were bright as stars, as deep as the ocean, and did not look old at all as he stared intently as Denethor.

Under that clear and strange gaze Denethor walked down the hall to the seat of his father. He knew that those around him were taking stock, as ever. He did not see Thorongil, but he had a guess thanks to Finduilas as to who this old man was. He walked slowly and calmly, bowed to his father and resumed his seat as of old.

Denethor resumed his seat at his father's right as though he had been gone mere hours, and returned the man's gaze. Ecthelion made quick introduction, and then the conversation resumed. Between father and son not a word passed, but Denethor cared little for the omission. He was fascinated and a little awed by this old man, Mithrandir. He did not have the bearing of an old man, or even Denethor noted, much like bearing of any man. Frequently the stranger would shift his dark and piercing eyes into Denethor's and it was as though the stones or sky itself had opened to look at him. The thought entered him that this was indeed not a man at all, yet he stood in the hall. The others treated him as a guest, his father smiled at him like an old friend, but Denethor saw that this old man stood for hours without tiring, that he stood far from the fire yet seemed warm long after the sun had sunk behind the hills.

That evening, as the others departed from the hall, Denethor approached Mithrandir. The old man had a smile about him, at once quick and patient that brought Thorongil to mind. Mithrandir stood still now, yet he bowed slightly once Denethor had reached him. Except for the guard at the door they stood alone in the great hall of Minas Tirith. Now that he was face to face with the bent old man Denethor could have sworn him to be shorter. His eyebrows were long and bushy, though not unkindly set, and his hands held a staff lightly, but not to lean on. Denethor, suddenly unwilling to push into this strange matter he had observed, turned his face further down the hall. All around him the statues of kings long dead, faces he had seen for so many years that he disregarded them as he would pillars, yet now in the dying light of the hall's torches they seemed to glow, to become soft and pliant, to resemble men. And what then was this old man before him, whose wrinkled flesh now seemed more durable than stone?

"What are you Master?" he asked.

"A friend," the old man replied.

Denethor felt the same stirring he had felt years before when the shadow of Mordor had first reappeared a sense of something great and aweful, "why are you in Gondor?"

"I am seeking knowledge, and an old acquaintance, as old men will." Mithrandir said, smiling at his questions.

"You are no man, Mithrandir, but see then that you do indeed prove a friend to Gondor." This last sally left Denethor feeling as foolish as a man who has spoken to a statue, mistaking it for a person. He might as well have shouted orders at the sea, yet if anything Mithrandir seemed softened by this.

"You are a formidable man, Son of Ecthelion, and I am indeed glad to make your acquaintance. I do desire the friendship of Gondor, but then I am friend to many, not Gondor alone."

Denethor looked sharply at Mithrandir but the man had seemed to shrink and now leaned upon his staff. And his steps were now uncertain as he walked across the stones of the hall towards his bed. Denethor stood in the hall while the torches faltered, then he walked for a long time through the halls of his home, and they seemed empty to him.

The next morning a page brought him a bundle of letters, and though he forced himself to meticulously open and read each field report, his heart felt light at the sight of a bundle from Dol Amroth. When his morning duties were done he sent word that he would dine alone, and taking pen in hand he began to write more earnestly than he had ever done in his life.

* * *

He had been writing now to Finduilas for years, and over time their thoughts grew more open, and as time passed she had become more his equal in mind; and he enjoyed to read her counsel now beyond indulgence. When she first began to mention her studies in her short but pretty letters, he in return translated poems and riddles from haradric and ancient westron for her. He was meticulous at first at providing the original texts, names and dates of the poets, and the conditions under which they wrote. After a while he sent poems in the high tongue, with no records, and she need not ask who wrote them, for she knew. These poems spoke not of fair maidens and romance, but of feats well planned and achieved; of nobility and duty, not love. Any other maiden would think it strange, but such things quickened the heart of Finduilas.

It was in Denethor's nature to be pleased and flattered by this correspondence, and he had begun to plan for himself how suitable Dol Amroth was for alliance with the house of Mardil. The family was one area he felt constant in, that he trusted above all other things. The father and brother he loved as comrades, and the daughter he now began to imagine as a wife. It was with the mind of a man and a steward that he thought these things. He considered the effect he had on her, and how it suited his purposes, but the little reckoned how he suited hers, or if indeed a life in Minas Tirith would suit her at all.

Finduilas meanwhile dreamed of a life unclosed by walls and unmarred by a moment's idleness. With the sun kissed peace of youth, which only knew the soft and sad parting now of brother or father from home, her life was comfortable and routine. Occasionally a page with laughing eyes delivered to her a packet from a strange hand that had over the years grown familiar. Yet never did her heart fail to jump at the sight of it. It was a sign he was safe, and always he wrote to her, no mater how far the post. Inside were things curious and sometimes valuable, but mainly they were often simply new or interesting. She had grown more skilled in intrigue, and her presence at her father's and brother's counsels had sharpened her sense of duty and policy. But she herself was not traveled, and the waters of the gulf of Luhn was never so turquoise clear as in her imagination, and the land of far Harad grew exotic with fabrics and spices that could only exist in a young girl's dream. She washed away the gory horrors of battle with pretty tears, and in her young mind each death became a tableau of contrite gestures and final words, blood the color of roses, and valor shining radiant over all. There was nothing so far in the life of a girl to bring her over much sorrow, save for frustrations of inaction, tenderly relieved by Denethor's letters and occasional requests for information. It had been years though since they had last met, and now in her womanhood these letters were no longer unremarked, at times her saucy young page delivered them with a wink. And now she found a need for secrecy with her letters, silly as she knew it were, and the desire to be alone when she read them. Indeed, the privacy that they had reached over the years would have shocked a reader, though not for the conventional reasons, for the letters were not at all what the smiling maids and winking page suspected. She found herself a quiet place on the beach to read by moonlight his latest letter.

_The companion of this Thorongil now holds counsel with Ecthelion, and men murmur at the deference the lord shows these strangers. Yet all men who serve with Thorongil grow to love him, and they grow fond of this Mithrandir as well. It seems that even under this growing shadow that a light comes from him. And he gives freely of his knowledge and counsel, save information about himself and his past... _

* * *

Denethor sighed and looked out over the teeming city. Mithrandir had confounded him that day and surely would the next. He heard the guards talking, and the men in the mess halls. As he had with Thorongil, Denethor likewise rebuffed the friendship of Mithrandir. When he saw the displeasure this caused his father he did little to amend it, for if he could not come first in his father's eyes than he would be first in his own. He would not fashion himself a lesser copy of another man, and his eyes saw before him noble blood of Numenor. That this Mithrandir, a wizard it was said, should ally himself spoke more than any words, and he began to now guess at Thorongil's identity. In this also did he derive great dissatisfaction, for he saw through all men but these two, and in them he sensed power veiled. It irked him that the two he desired to know most about could so easily defy his sight, and of themselves they revealed little.

He had made up his mind to speak openly against Thorongil to his father, for he was a man of little words, and even fewer when they touched upon his own heart and council. But even as he quickly straightened his tunic in the glass and prepared his argument he did not know what would seem good in his father's eyes, for he went to him now as a son, and as such he felt he had little value. The sound of the servants with their morning chores heartened him with their monotony, and he went to his father early, while Ecthelion was still in his quarters. He found Ecthelion looking out as he had done at the city, at the middle circles where few now dwelled, and few had dwelled since the ancient days of the kin strife.

At his entrance the Steward smiled, but did not turn, "What is it that you seek so early Denethor?"

"Your counsel father." Ecthelion nodded but made no other sign.

Denethor came and stood beside him at the window, "I worry that my father's captain and Mithrandir draw the steward's eye too far from Gondor, and that in the end they have their own designs and would shape my father's counsels thus."

At these words Ecthelion laughed at this directness and questioned Denethor, "Is it so evil in your eyes, my son, that we should consider the plight of other lands? Do they not send aid to us, even if it be one soldier?"

Denethor then taking his father's meaning to heart replied, "I value every soldier my lord, provided they are faithful to my land and city. It is when they put their own plans before those of my lord that I find their value to be diminished."

Ecthelion then looked hard at his son, "Is Thorongil's value small? Or Mithrandir's? Or is it your indeed your wounded pride that bids you think them thus? For many years I have watched your long and ceaseless labor, though I have spoken no word of praise. Indeed I have none- for it is both your right and duty to labor thus, and it is a heavy fate to bear!"

At this Denethor made no reply, for he had fancied his labor overlooked by his father's eyes. For years now he had labored in Thorongil's shadow. Then his father looked upon him with affection and amusement at his wonder.

"You are surprised that I should see this, I, thy father? Nay to others, even to yourself, you may present this aspect of iron, but have I not seen thy joys and sorrows since thy infancy?"

"Then perhaps father you will understand why I bear that name so little love, valiant captain though he may be."

"He is of great value my son, and his presence has eased my failing years."

"Thus would you wish your captains? As willful upstarts who will seek to supplant you even as they bow before you? Or do you value merely this man over your own son? Or do you will that this is the sort of man I should be, of stale nobility from forgotten tales! Who sing sweet songs of far off small victories while Gondor pales about you?"

Then Ecthelion sternly replied, "I would indeed wish you a man of less mind and more heart. You would have a city of iron and stone, yet not was the way of our forefathers. The tree is withered and barren in the courtyard, as it has been all of my life, and I know now I will never see it in bloom."

And Denethor replied, "The orcs of Mordor would make quick burning of all our gardens should the might of steel and stone fail."

Then Ecthelion looked gravely at his son, "Yet protection alone is not enough for mortal man, there must be growth and joy and many other fair things. A man will die if you shut him in a keep, though he is safe from foes. There is more than one way to defeat a man Denethor, and our enemy is subtle."

Then father and son parted in discontent and Denethor returned again to labor in the South, since Thorongil now held command along the northern borders.

* * *

As an older and slightly wiser man Denethor rode through a warm and balmy air towards the city. The light itself was softer, not reddened by the shadow or reflecting the harshness of mountains, fallen to a distance. He was surprised at how clearly the paths were in his memory, that he knew the routes here as closely as the ones in Minas Tirith. As Dol Amroth, pink and orange in the setting sun, came to his view he felt a peace wash over him. This image he had carried for a long time now, and those he felt to be safe here. He felt the desire of older men for rest, and felt sudden empathy for his father, ever in the duty of Steward. Yet his thoughts and heart were in front of him, and he pushed his tired mount towards the well remembered towers. The servants hailed him and rejoiced, and the cares of the days fell from him.

In the year 2070 he stood on the fortifications of Dol Amroth, ones that he had helped build as a young man, and watched the waves crash beneath him. He was now full-grown into manhood, and felt a measure of pride and contentment at his first great achievement.

Even as he surveyed the land his eyes lit upon one that strayed across the dunes. She seemed to glow with soft light, as she walked along the beach in the sunset. Many colors played across her fair skin, and in Denethor's eyes those colors were magnified. She had the grace and beauty of those of Dol Amroth in whom the elvish blood could yet be seen. Now grown to womanhood, the daughter of Adrahil was indeed elven fair. Beholding her in the fading light Denethor felt that his mind and heart, for the first time in his life perhaps, were one. It occurred to him that if she could love him, would love him completely, than he would no longer feel the days of his life to be empty. She lifted her hand to the soaring gulls, carelessly, guilessly. Then she became aware of him, and let her hand drop, and he feared that he had frightened or offended her. It was not so, for a smile of recognition graced her features and she made a small gesture as if to invite him to join her. Then his face lit with a rare smile. Like winter sunshine it seemed, for he felt for the first time the weight of his loneliness, and the need of older men for one of youth and joy to ease their toil.

He had grown accustomed to sharing his intimate thoughts to her on paper, yet now she walked beside him and he knew not what to say to one so fair and gay. She smiled at him then, for as a woman she thought she knew why he was so quiet.

With Denethor now before her, she read tender words and thoughts into his silence. He hoped that she would, for he thought beautiful words, and at times wrote them, yet before her he could say them not. The dark looks he received from so many were entirely absent from her face, yet the affect was both pleasing and troubling. He felt like a man long in battle who chances into sudden peace, yet he was also without armor before her. Her love, so strong and unbidden, was beyond his ken.

At length she spoke of his deeds, and expressed admiration and concern. A great many accounts of his actions had come to the ears of Dol Amroth from the mouth of Thorongil himself, but that he didn't know. Over the years Imrahil had grown closer to Thorongil, and that fact Finduilas had omitted in her letters, fearing it would set strife between him and her brother. Yet from those tales of bravery and sacrifice Denethor's suit was plead and won in her own heart long before he gave voice to it. At length though he asked her how she seemed to know of his deeds and she spoke of her family's visits from Thorongil, who was also high now in the esteem of her father, and practically worshiped by her young brother.

At this news Denethor gave no outward sign of displeasure though it struck him coldly. In this above all things he would not suffer the presence of his rival. It seemed to him that Thorongil would cement his power in Gondor with a strong alliance. Yet until that moment he had never considered that he might lose Finduilas to another. His own folly was now plain to him, if he failed to speak then another would. She had become such a part of his life that he almost passed over her, yet the thought now of her in the arms of another took his breath away. Thorongil verily thought Finduilas fair and noble, but his heart was given to another. Denethor new naught of this however, and at that moment he resolved to win the heart of Finduilas.

Then in measured tone he replied, "I would that you would not listen to too many tales from idle wanderers."

And Finduilas perceived a shadow had fallen on him and tried to win back his good humor, "I listen to all that I may about you Lord, does it displease you that I fill my time with so noble a topic?"

Then Denethor smiled grimly and replied, "There are fairer things for ladies to discuss than the deeds of a captain, surely you do not delight in tales of blood and battle, being one of so gentle a heart."

"Say rather lord that I prefer to hear that my people have been made safe by a defeat of our enemies, or even better that you have gained us an ally through diplomacy."

Denethor then clasped her hand, "you have grown indeed since I saw you last lady, and that it is a great delight to me to find one so young and fair with such intelligence."

Finduilas laughed merrily, "You cannot read me as you do your books and scrolls! Men and women are ever changing, and no one knows their measure and merit ere the end."

And then Denethor laughed and replied softly, "How then shall my lady know me? When I may return a different man a month hence?"

And she smiled softly in return and replied, "No, your worth does not change, whether hidden in shadow or brilliant under sun. It is in all you do, and written upon you. For though you say and speak little, your actions speak much. Since childhood I have seen your ceaseless labor for our people, and the wisdom that directs that labor."

Denethor was surprised that any maiden should speak so, though not unpleased. But he teasingly commented that she spoke plainly and she looked gravely upon him and replied, "I do not ask for your forgiveness lord, for my plain speech. I would have all matters lie plainly between us."

And then Denethor seemed to find at last one to whom he could openly speak and he was much moved. And he opened his heart to her and pleaded his suit, and to this she agreed. Denethor that night deemed he had gained the possession of something very fine, and that she was his alone, and that she would share the tender light within her with him. And Finduilas beside him glowed radiant for it seemed to her that she could take great care of her country by caring for one so mighty. Yet she also thought, as he stood before her, noble and wise that he might elevate her; for so highly did she value him that she set him dangerously high in her ideals and expectations. She in her innocence imagined that his heart would unlock the mysteries that he knew. And once she had gained that key her life would be spent in worth and contentment, above the pettiness and small matters that engulfed those around her.

So they walked along the beach together as twilight settled and spoke of small things: changing tide lines, fair days, and the doings of her kin. As they talked the stars appeared one by one above them, glittering in the dark blue sky.


	9. A Noble Match

_Reader warning – the end of the chapter is a wedding night, so if you don't know what that entails or are too young to know, well, skip to the last sentence after the wedding. Please. Children may only safely read about horrible deaths, love might warp your minds… _

What I would have

IX A Noble Match

That evening as they walked under a midnight sky filled with stars, Denethor spoke thus to Finduilas: "I know I have been an indifferent lover. But I offer you to be my wife, of aLord of Gondor if you will. And as the wife of the Steward you may spend your talents in work for our realm and bring about great good."

Then she smiled and said, "That is all I desire."

So between them there was an understanding, that he would depend upon her as a support and friend, and she would find the worth that she sought for her own life in him. Denethor then felt great happiness, one thing he had desired was his, and it was this marvelous creature. He lead her back into the hall with the greatest feeling of triumph. Even the thought of Thorongil threw no damper on the evening. Imrahil might speak as he wished of others, to Denthor he would be a brother. Adrahil, Denethor already admired, to officially be his son was no great step.Indeed that evening the whole world seemed as it it were created for him, and that he possessed it, and possessing such he wanted nothing more than to lay it at the feet of the maiden beside him. Then Minas Tirith itself called to him. He would set his bride there with the city about her feet. She would be as a mother to his people, and she would learn to pursue is policies at home with greater skill, thus freeing his mind and strength for martial purposes. His head swam with what he might now achieve. He spoke for her that evening to Adrahil, and the Lord, hale and tried mariner, slapped him heartily on the back. There were few men that would not want to tie their house to the ruling stewards, and Adrahil thought it a most opportune match.

Denethor stayed at Dol Amroth while he wrote to his father for permission, and he spent many happy days there in the company of those whom he would soon claim as kin. Most of this time he spent with Finduilas, taking walks upon the beach, or showing her on her father's maps in more detail where he had been; but most of all he loved to hear her fanciful notions regarding the world in which they lived, and the part he played in it. He had never cared for minstrels' songs or words, but from her lips such phrases became truth, if for no other reason than her own simple faith. Most entrancing for him was the way his own stern duty, by the light of her eyes, became lit with glory. With her, courtly love and noble deaths were the only truths; whereas the minstrels who played the halls always seemed to be mocking their own words with their experience. The childlike simplicity with which she approached all things was precious to him, and when she spoke he saw the world born anew in her eyes. This rejuvenation that she worked transformed him as well, he strove to keep her world as sheltered and lovely, and for her sake he tried to become more gentle and gay. He deceived himself in this, for he thought her fair but untutored, and imagined that when she grew wise in the world that her brilliance and gaiety would remain and sustain her. He knew now that he loved her, and loved the way she turned his life to glory and renown, and he now coveted her above all else, and resolved that she should be his.

* * *

But disquiet at this union grew in the heart of Imrahil, for he loved his sister dearly, yet knew her to be bright and young, and he thought her an ill match for one so stern and grim. Thus did he speak to her on Midsummer's eve while they stood looking out over the harbor of their home,

"I fear sister that you see too much of what you would see in him. Nay! I speak not ill of him, he is a noble man and valiant. He is indeed the very likeness of Numenor of old. Yet Finduilas, forget not how that land perished; through pride, and despair, and covetousness. Indeed, I think the Lord Denethor walks in the very shadow of Numenor, and I fear for you under that shadow."

Then Finduilas smiled and replied, "Brother do not think me blind. I see who wounds his pride and what he despairs of losing, or perhaps of never gaining. But I also see a man of great worth! Do we not now owe our peace and happiness largely to his labor? He has done much to drive back the shadow from our lands, and in return I would spare him the darkness he has known, if I could."

"My dear sister, there are many men of worth who are also of great gentleness and kindness, and so would I counsel you if I could, to chose a match from among them. This man is stern as stone."

And Finduilas smiled and replied, "So does he chose to appear, but I have seen the spirit behind that stone. He may not speak soft words of love, but his love is honest. The young men are full of poetry and vanity, yet he speaks what is true."

"He is of great spirit, my dear sister, but little love. He will not send pretty gifts such as you are used to receiving, nor provide balm for your heart with soft words."

"No, for years has he sent me gifts of use; for he respects the mind that beholds them. I weary of love, and pretty trinkets, and soft words that are as meaningless as the cries of the gulls. I would have knowledge, and respect, and the companionship of so great a man."

And Imrahil was astonished, for he had not known of their long correspondence. "But do you love him? To respect a man is one thing, but to trade love for respect and kindness for knowledge! I hope you will not make such a poor bargain. The warmth that a man and woman share is the greatest wealth that one can hope to attain, the greatest strength, and the noblest cause. That is the fire that burns in us to withstand the shadow of the east."

And Finduilas felt this conversation to be silly, and understanding not Imrahil's intentions she replied somewhat stiffly, "He has great wisdom and that is altogether a different sort of fire, and I am drawn to that light; I will welcome no other."

Then Imrahil said nothing more against the suit of Denethor, for he saw verily that he had won her heart. But he resolved to settle the matter with Adrahil, for fresh in his mind was the campaign several years ago in Harad.

* * *

Imrahil sough Adrahil on the docks. If fate permitted his father would never leave the sea, he knew. He accepted that as the fate of men, to often be far from what they loved, yet toil mightily for it. But the fate of maids was far different to him. He remembered the sorrows of his mother in his early youth, and also that she had died in childbirth, while is father was at sea, and he shuddered to remember how she suffered alone. Adrahil looked towards his son and saw the sorrow on his face

"What ails you Imrahil?"

"A memory father, and fear for my sister."

"Fear? What has she done?" Adrahil said with merry eyes, "You are beyond, I thought, the age of tattling on her to me."

"Not in a matter such as this sire. She is in peril."

"Peril? From what?"

"From who, father. Did you know that Lord Denethor has spoken to her of an attachment?"

"Denethor may have mentioned something of the sort to me. I believe it was a marriage come to think of it." Adrahil replied, rather amused at Imrahil's indignation.

"Father, be serious. You can not have given your consent?"

"Indeed I have, I have seen them together. She worships him."

"And you think this well?"

"Indeed son, I have brought many young men to her only to have her turn up her nose. I am a bit surprised by the choice, there is some difference of age, but, all in all, it is not a bad match."

"With respect sire, to admire a man is one thing, and to live under his thumb quite another."

"I have watched him over the years, he is a good man."

"And I have served with him. More importantly, I have served under him."

"You judge him cruel then, to serve?" Adrahil asked in surprise.

Imrahil shrugged, "He was a stern commander, but just."

"Then you should have no fear for your sister. He is just, and will be a wise Steward."

Imrahil paced across the dock in agitation, "Justice and wisdom? To take the place of love?" He turned towards his father, "Do you know he made no sport with the women of the camps, and many might find that a mark of great prudence and esteem. But.. but.. that is all he is made of – honor and duty." At this Imrahil paused. Adrahil had sat on a dock post and was regarding him with a maddeningly amused air. "He will have her transcribing posts for him in some dark tower of Minas Tirith, scratching away at scrolls, and she will worship him for it until she dies from lack of light."

"Come boy, Imrahil, the life of lady of Minas Tirith cannot be that bad. They have clerks."

"Pray father do not jest, it is not jest to me, nor to her. Retract your permission, forbid this."

"And if I do, who will heal her grief then? And if she stays she must go to another. Would not a southern lord leave her for years at sea? And if he should go down with his ship will she not then know sorrow?"

"Such risks in life we all take, but she does not know the risks she is taking. It is unkind to not open her eyes before she commits herself."

At that Adrahil smiled again, "And you have tried?"

"She would not listen, it seems she has long been in correspondence with him. That he has for a long time held her heart, and she, fanciful girl, has fallen prey to her own visions of him"

And Adrahil stood and laid a hand on Imrahil's shoulder, "even so, how do you know what she envisions in him is false?"

"She is like most soft hearted women. She envisions a spring of great happiness and contentment."

"And so it will be, that is the nature of marriage my son, as I hope you yourself shall see."

"And when spring is over? That man will seldom be by her side."

"Well, well, she seems to have already made her choice. She could have done worse. No man of any worth could stay constantly by her side, and she will have children for company. Women are fonder of children than we men, her life will not be empty."

At this Imrahil sighed and shook his head, but he did not argue further. Musing, Adrahil turned to watch the gulls in the bay. "I dare say she shall miss the ocean though, poor lass. And I thought she liked getting her own way better…"

Imrahil broke in passionately, "But that is exactly my point sir! How can she marry him? It is a terrible match! It is like wedding her to a stone. He has ice in his veins."

At that Adrahil turned back to face him, "he is not as black as you paint him son. There is blood in those veins. Has he not written to her for years?"

"Then forgive my analogy lord. He does not have ice in his veins, it is ink."

Adrahil laughed, "Well she does like learning you know. She is an odd sort of woman, and if the match likes her then I will not speak against it. Let her go, my son, it is the fate of women. They must leave and live the life of their husbands. It is always thus, let her go."

"She does not understand who this man is."

"And he does not know her, I thought she would prefer someone to indulge her fancies, but he will keep her busy at politics, and perhaps that would serve. And it is a strong alliance for you as well, and that I have long seen."

Then Imrahil was silent, but though he still objected he trusted the judgment of his father. Adrahil had been surprised but not displeased by Denethor, and he had long admired him as a son. It was easy to see the advantages such an allegiance would bring to all involved. Indeed, under the fair sun, in that still peaceful land, shadows seemed but fleeting. And the soft falling of the waves soothed the disquiet of both their hearts. That the land of Gondor could prove as severe as its lord was something neither considered.

* * *

So it was to the joy of many that Denethor, heir to the Steward of Gondor, wedded Finduilas of Dol Amroth on a fair summer day in the year 2976. There was much rejoicing, for the strengthening of the ties between lands was thought by all a good omen. Denethor as of old had on that day no rival, and came first in the hearts and minds of all. Ecthelion his father expressed great pleasure in his choice of wife and in many respects the union was blessed. On that soft day Denethor seemed to be young again and happy for the first time, and those who knew him marveled at the change that Finduilas had wrought. Denethor smiled and talked with the guests. He was more at ease, and indeed more truly himself than any had ever seen, and all who were present felt now that he would be a great Steward.

Thorongil was in the field on the day of the wedding, so Denethor had nothing to vex him. He watched with joy as his wife danced with his father, and he found himself frequently smiling as the day passed. He felt years of care fall away. For the first time since his youth he cared little for the policies of the day. He barely thought of the shadow or the duties of the next day, he was content to smile and jest and revel in his marriage, and he felt a great kinship with all who reveled with him.

* * *

At last the time came for the couple to retire, and they left the great hall for the steward's quarters. Denethor, to ease her mind, brought Finduilas first through the throne room, so that they could enter their quarters more or less privately. The guard there winked at him, and Denethor was torn between winking back and smashing the man with a fist. But his wife distracted him by folding her arm into his. Finduilas was a vision in white, with gems in her hair and on her brow, but he could tell by the tension in her that she was anxious as to the coming nuptial evening. Denethor remembered now that her mother had died in childbirth, and he wondered what woman had imparted the knowledge of what was to follow to her. She was a woman in age, but still a maid, and he felt the knowledge of what was to come dance like a fire between them.

Inside his quarters the fire was blazing and the blankets had been turned down. Denethor closed the door, and then they were alone. He was wondering how to begin, when Finduilas, blushing and shaking, gently laid a had upon his chest and kissed him. It seemed then that all victories that had been or that would come paled to winning such a wife. He gently removed her robe and laid her on his bed. She looked at him with perfect love and trust, though her cheeks were scarlet. He fought the desire to look upon her body, instead holding her gaze when she would withdraw it, and kissing her when she seemed afraid. Finally he sank into the rapture of a wife, his wife, whom he could love and trust completely, for she was his.

For her part, Finduilas, shaking with and trepidation, had found herself lead from the hall by her now husband. She grew increasingly nervous that he said nothing. She knew to expect something unpleasant and painful from gathered whispers of her attendants, but why was a complete surprise. It was the first of many in her marriage. She had dreamed of discourse and kind deeds, but as in all proper songs and tales for ladies, her imagination stopped at the wedding. Exactly what men and women who were married did was unknown to her. The strangely physical activity, the need on Denethor's face was frightening, but when it was over she was shocked by light in his eyes.

He held her very close, and she snuck a look down the length of his strange body. Muscled and hard, his chest reminded her of wood, at times streaked with scars. His hands on her skin were rough. Modesty brought her eyes back to his face. The weight of him on top of her made it hard to breath, and was painful, but enjoyable nonetheless, and the duality seemed strange. He stared at her with such terrible intensity that she felt compelled to look away, but he stopped her with his lips whenever she tried to turn her head. Finally he moved from atop her and she rolled away from him, clinging to the bedclothes. This seemed to amuse him for he was smiling; in fact he looked almost jubilant.

"Are you hurt?" She did not know how to answer the question, for the answer was obvious, but she decided he meant grievously and replied, "no."

"Then come here," he said and she slowly moved back towards him. He gathered her fully in his arms, a feeling she had begun to enjoy, foreign as it was.

"My sweet lady," he murmured.

"My lord," she felt his smile against her brow, for she lay with her head rested on his chest. Through the warmth of flesh she heard the pounding rhythm of his heart. They lay in that manner for a long time, and she listened as his heart settled into a steady rhythm, like that of the ocean. She rose on her elbows to see him asleep with all care removed from his face. He looked very young to her then, and frail. Without the knowledge of his grey eyes, his face was handsome and somehow vulnerable. She moved to smooth his hair, but the touch awoke him, and the grey eyes sparkled at her.

"I did not mean to wake you."

"And I do not mind."

He paused for a moment, and she realized he was listening. She listened too, and heard the sound of music. Evidently only a few hours had passed, for the feasting continued. She realized then that he was gazing at her again. And felt a slight smile on her lips.

"I did not mean to wake you." She said again with a teasing firmness to her voice.

And Denethor laughed. She was enchanted by the sound of his laughter, that of one perfectly at peace, it had a strange free sound to it, the sound of pure happiness, and she marveled that she could be the cause of it. Then Denethor took her hand in his and kissed it, and drawing her back down to him looked into her eyes.

"I love you."

She kissed him and replied in kind. They passed the night together, talking and laughing, until sleep claimed them both. It occurred to Denethor, as he drifted off that he had never heard those words before, nor had he ever said them to another.


	10. The Girl I Left Behind Me

Thanks for those reading and commenting. Intro Boromir. Hope you enjoy.

What I Would Have 

IX: The Girl I left Behind Me

The bloom of their marriage unhappily proved to be a brief season, for not a fortnight had passed when an army of orc-like men from Far Harad passed into South Ithilien, and all able captains were needed for her defense. Denethor stopped by his rooms on the way from the council, and Finduilas heard his orders numbly. She faltered about the room as he packed, and, unfamiliar with the task, felt frustrated that she could not aid him in this way. Yet even so he was too soon ready to leave. Then Denethor gathered her in his arms, and kissed her, and he dropped to his knees with his head upon her breast. She gently caressed his hair as he breathed against her, wrapping her arms around him as though she could keep him from harm; at length he sighed, and stood, and was gone.

The company rode out quickly through the streets, and from the tower she watched them dimly making their way through the levels, all the while causing a brief rush as parents lifted hands in blessing, and wives fluttered kerchiefs from windows or held up sons. Excursions were too frequent to cause a large stir, but even from the tower window Finduilas saw that most seemed almost afraid to wave goodbye, as though they might slow down the column, or as if they found such an indulgence in passion unbecoming. No one about the tower or Steward's houses seemed alarmed or much concerned for the parting. She felt a great wave of homesickness at the memory of a ship sailing from Belfalas: how the people went to the docks together, and how afterward the women would weep and cheer each other, and the men would divide duties, and boys would swell with importance and offer assistance to the women. It was a comfort that one and all shared the anxiety and grief, and later the happiness at a return, or the sorrow when a ship was lost. But here in Minas Tirith the shadow was there constantly, and the people had learned to live around it. They went about their day; women who that morning had broken fast with their husbands might be widows before the next dawn, yet they did their laundry and shopped and continued as though nothing was amiss. The city had long returned to normal while Finduilas was still following the company with her eyes, and it was only the sound of footsteps behind her that broke her from her reverie.

Miriel, her lady's maid from her father's house, had come in search of her. She was only slightly older than Finduilas, from the stout country stock of Lamedon, and had come to Belfalas with the hope of a good station and merriment of the ports. She had found a position within Imrahil's house despite her lack of experience, and in part because of it, for he kept his children as protected as possible from court intrigue, deeming the more time they spent outdoors in the world the better, and that time itself should confine them to the murmurings of politics. Finduilas had been a sad puzzle to him, and as his wife had died young, he secured her a steady and happy company in the boisterous Miriel. He had hoped that the company of one so practical and straightforward would free her of some of her dreaminess. He could not however, hamper her growth into a lady of the court, and Finduilas had long now taken part in the dinners, dance, and parties that decided the flow of armies.

At first Miriel had been dismayed by the serious turn in her young mistress, but when it became clear that none other than Captain Denethor was making her his object she had readily enough aided her. Now, however, Finduilas was safely and well married. Miriel, pleased to be settled in the finest house of the capitol, nonetheless felt it her duty to redirect her mistress again. In her opinion Finduilas was an idealistic young woman: as harmless as a lamb, and as capable of caring for herself as one as well. She dismissed Finduilas' turn towards knowledge and her desire to do great works for Gondor as a girl's fancy, one that would soon be replaced by children, and in Miriel's simple heart she hoped for many such distractions for her mistress.

She was alarmed to find Finduilas that morning seated on a chill box window looking after the troops, "Come then my lady, you'll catch a cold in that window" she said, moving to take Finduilas' arm.

Finduilas responded quietly, "Now he has gone off, and to what end?"

"None of this talk of ends now, madam," Miriel said briskly, "You shall take up your old plans again, and soon you'll be busy enough."

Finduilas rose form the seat, but suddenly she swayed, and her hand clung to edge of the seat.

"Here madam, you're worn with worry, you go lie down for a bit, and you'll feel better." Miriel said in a cheerfully but forcefully. As she spoke she wound her arm through Finduilas' and directed her steps towards her quarters. Finduilas did not resist, for she suddenly felt quite truly ill and was glad of the support. Miriel however, suspecting she knew the cause of such faintness, was joyful at heart. But when Finduilas returned to her empty quarters, she sealed herself within the privacy of her chamber, and she wept.

Denethor rode out with four columns of cavalry. It was his preferred method of fighting to come with far greater numbers. It might mean losing some homesteads to the invaders, but he could avoid a loss in battle and far more grievous inroads in this fashion. The report had come mostly from Thorongil, who by all accounts was harassing the enemy away from the most vulnerable areas, where, whether for love or foolish pride, a few proud old homesteads still stood in the hills like sandcastles under a wave. Denethor though had a fondness for the area, and for those same people, he found a certain poignancy in their unwillingness to submit to change or flee from the shadow.

As he rode Denethor took in the familiar sound of hooves and men, and thought little of his wife. It was only when he looked back over at the city that he missed her, and wondered how she would spend the long hours. Yet he fancied she would be learning the ways of the city she had but previously visited, and would familiarize herself with the regulars at court, and keep busy in the ways that women do. Many of his men congratulated him now as they rode and then he recalled the past few days with a measure of peace and pride, and he knew that part of his heart now rested, secure and cared for, within the walls of the White City. Even Thorongil had words of congratulations, and, as they discussed strategy, their old rivalry seemed unimportant to Denethor, as though he had moved above and beyond such petty grievances. The image of Finduilas, with her bright eyes and soft smile, reminded him of joy beyond the bickering of men. And her constant love, or so he deemed it, took the place of his stiff pride. As the days turned into weeks, the glow of this thought remained constant, though he indulged in thoughts of her seldom, for distractions could quickly cost lives in a campaign.

Finduilas was left in a strange city alone. She had but briefly beheld the shadow err she came to dwell in Minas Tirith. Now it hung over her even on the brightest days and swallowed the stars at night. She at first sought to bust herself with some sort of work, but she knew nothing of ordering a city. The household was left in almost rigid shape, and Finduilas spent the first few days of their separation struggling through account books, looking for someway to increase household wealth or to improve the maintenance. She found very few things amiss, as though she had walked into the model of a perfect home. As for working in the city itself, there were many masters, and she was too ignorant of operations on such a large scale. She had directed her father's household servants, and all who undertook her care deemed that more than enough experience. So she continued her wretched arithmetic until Miriel threatened to remove all the candles from their quarters, then Finduilas was forced to concede that she could not assist Denethor in that way.

As the weeks wore on she continued to feel ill. Not in a painful way, but more like one who is weary, and cannot turn to rest. Yet she knew for the peace of mind of her father-in-law that she must assume an air of health. So she allowed herself to be dressed in the latest styles, combed and fussed into a picture of a lovely young bride. She dined daily at the steward's table, though Ecthelion often used these meetings for work.

At first Finduilas had hoped to make herself of use as of old. She kept a sharp ear out for his part, though she said little. Unfortunately little enough was said at these meetings. The mysterious Mithrandir had not reappeared, and instead the same deferential and supplicant lords came to dine. They shared old stories and jests, but it was plain that most decisions were being made in the field by the Steward's son, and though Finduilas was gladdened by that, she also felt left behind and miserably excluded. She also as the weeks went by began to lose her interest in these conversations, then she sat smiling graciously and emptily, or looking down at her plate. She poked at her food on the silver service, and memorized the different patterns. She began to find reason to excuse herself, for she often felt short of breath in the great hall, despite its high ceiling and vast spaces.

She sought relief walking the gardens, for though Miriel insisted on accompanying her, the wind often carried her voice away, and Finduilas was free to move about in the light and air as if alone. Whichever way she walked however, she always came to a wall of stone, and the city itself faced east, save for the westward walk that became the paths of Rath Dinen. And no matter which way she faced she found herself gazing south to her home of old, or into the terrible darkness of the east, where her husband was.

Once the first month had passed she was suddenly flooded with invitations to visit the notables of the city and of the surrounding areas. The new bride of the future Steward must be given her due, and duty was as natural to Gondor as breathing. Then she must sit down and sort in her mind who had the highest claim in terms of birth and relation, and guess at who her husband sought alliance with. She had much to think on, but it was little to her liking. She began to miss the frank and interesting correspondence of Denethor. It was the longest she had gone without word from him since their courtship began.

One chill morning brought a bundle of letters to her in his hand, and clutching it to her, she retreated to her sewing room. She unwrapped the cloth cover with shaking hands and broke the seal. Inside she found a long list of winter duties that must be cross checked on his estates, and details for which nobles needed to be pressed to give more to service. She sat down heavily then, as though she had been slapped. Her face was quite pale, though there were none to witness it, but the color came back, and she laughed a little softly at her own foolishness. She almost put the papers away, but soon, almost automatically, she walked to the next room for her invitations and began to put his plans into action.

With the coming of winter the last settlements of Ithilien were finally overrun. Her husband she knew was loathe to lose them and fought the desperate battle for months with little word. At times she only knew that he was alive, and sometimes none could even tell her of that. She understood his intentions and love for country, as she understood that she was expected to understand, to suffer his absence with model fortitude for the populace of the city. Yet the suffering of duty she had once embraced as a mark of service, she found harder to bear in truth. She was terrified for him, and each night without him lay darker and colder. At times she would lie in his bed rather than her own, and the sheets white and empty mocked her, and the moon spilled in over all. It was not the honey light of her seaside home, but cold and white as the snowy mountains. Then in the blankness of white light and empty white sheets it would seem to her as if she herself was being erased, and her heart froze in terror.

As winter set in a new evil afflicted her: far from the ocean, Minas Tirith was subject to bitter winds. Colds she had not known before kept her from the gardens where she had once found relief, and she now sought distraction indoors. Then her sense of duty was sorely tried, for she spent long hours with bellicose old commanders and the higher society of Gondor, trying to charm ever-waning funds, and allay fears about their sons' welfare. All the time conscious that she spoke only as the wife of Denethor, and that she was new to the city. She went to such lunches and dinners alone, for Ecthelion was busy, and there was no one else to accompany her. She could not very well mention her own misgivings to those she was expected to soothe, so her fears went unspoken and unrelieved.

Miriel her maid became increasingly lively, as though she though to infuse her own vivacity into her mistress, and she often attempted to interest her in the doings of the city. At times they would go down arm and arm into the lower levels on a shopping trip for a new color of cloth or to see some new style. Finduilas had never had concern for such things, and she found her eyes and mind were want to wander from the stalls to the homes behind them. There she would see the wives of the shopkeepers busy with their families, or aiding their husbands' work, and a sad sort of envy grew in her for those so happily employed. Yet most homes were like her own, empty of their men, and it seemed at times that the women were watching her from behind the weather beaten shutters, or casting sidelong glances at her as she passed. The weather was often bitter, and as these women passed her in the street wrapped in drab shawls, Finduilas felt as though they were passing judgment, accusing her with their silent and empty courtesies. Her maid's chatter seemed to only draw more attention, horribly out of place with its cheer, like a swallow singing in a snowstorm. Their excursions into the city itself failed to raise her spirits, for its workings were beyond her, and the more she learned of it the more her own childhood plans of achieving some great purpose here seemed foolish, and the more her own ignorance seemed to hold her back. Finally freed by the weather from shopping and paying calls, Finduilas spent long hours walking the halls of the steward's house. They were warm and well built, yet they were often chill to her. The tapestries swayed lightly as she moved hand across them. She looked with wonder at their art, for some had been brought from Numenor before the fall. There she saw bright gardens and towers, blessed by a sunny sea. Children played in courtyards and birds sang under a kindly blue sky.

Mingling with fears for Denethor's safety was the constant reminder of the evil and ever darkening days ahead. For the people of Ithilein fled to Minas Tirith, and as her title demanded she presided over many sad burials. She watched the butchered bodies of fair men washed and laid to rest for such was still the job of women, though not gentle women. More often the caskets were judiciously closed. But the vision of fingers clutching at the marble feet of the sarcophagi of Rath Dinen filled her horror, and the sobs that echoed down those marble halls haunted her hours. She felt now a fear that she would lose her husband, for seldom had she seen so plainly the danger that he faced. Her youthful hopes of easing his care vanished like mist under harsh sun. The gentle hours of study and leisure she had imagined seemed forever removed from her by constant war. And though she dwelt in a fair city, her heart misgave her, and she yearned for the soft harbors of her life that had been but a season ago.

The frozen winter was unrelenting, yet at last there were no more foes readily found, and the battered company, sadly reduced, returned to the city. Thorongil and Denethor rode in together, though their hearts were opposed on many of the things that had befallen them. Yet Denethor alone looked forward to the city as a relief from strife, and for the first time he realized that Thorongil had no such refuge to return to, and for a moment Denethor was almost moved by pity. Then Thorongil turned his horse towards the stables and looked up pensively at the Towers above, as though seeking a memory, or seeing a vision, and Denethor's heart was hardened. He sought his own private peace, and left Thorongil to whatever company he preferred.

Yet when Denethor at last returned to his rooms, he found his wife pale and with reddened eyes. She had maintained her control as long as she had duties to perform, but now that they were alone she was unable to contain her terror. She clung to him about the neck, and when he had soothed her, she spoke and desired him to request appointment to the south. But this Denethor would not do, and he laughed at her fears.

"Can this be the woman who spoke so highly of my deeds? On what fair field did you think they were obtained? You are but sick for your home and kin, I deem, and that will pass. You will not always be shaking like a rabbit hiding before hounds. Verily the shadow lies here before us, but do I not hold it off?"

But Finduilas would not have her fears laughed at by the one person to whom she could confess them. She felt a distance open between them that she had never felt before, and it made her all the more desperate and sharp in her reply, "And the rabbit is to be scorned because it dies so poorly under the teeth of the hounds? As I am so clearly lacking in courage, I must then appeal to your mercy."

Denethor grew stern in aspect, for thoughts of her happiness had fed his own through many miserable nights; yet it seemed to him that she rejected the safety he provided, "What would you have me do my wife? Do you truly doubt the ability of Gondor to protect you?"

And she looked at him as one stricken and replied, "How ill you think of me! It is for you that I fear. Why must you fight directly under this hateful shadow, when you made such progress before at sea?"

He then saw her suffering, and he repented somewhat of his manner and took her in his arms. "I love thee dearly, but I will soon be steward and I must dwell in Minas Tirith, and therefore you must as well. In time you will not notice the shadow. You will be too busy caring for our sons."

Then they spoke no more of distressing matters, for Denethor was weary from battle, and Finduilas eager to recapture the happiness they had shared. They spent the next few days often together, or as often as his duties allowed. Finduilas was pleased to tell him of some success in gaining alliances at home through many tedious lunches, and he praised her efforts. But at length she spoke to him as she had done as a maiden and asked him to instruct her in how to run the city.

"You think my father incapable?" Denethor asked in surprise.

"Indeed no," she replied, "but I feel my time is spent here in sloth, surely if I was better informed I might do more?"

"Your duty is to aid me, my lady, and it takes many years to learn how to govern a city. Invite out worthies to dinner, those who yield the wealth of their estates and the sons of their flesh to the armies of Gondor, and thus ease their hearts. That is a great and necessary work"

Then Finduilas sighed unhappily, and Denethor saw her discontent. And he felt some slight amusement then and said, "and I will teach thee some of my work, and you my copy dictation for me, and write some small petitions, would that please you?"

And seeing the light in her eyes rekindled he smothered any further mirth, and he drew her into his lap, and they sat together at his desk while he explained his bookkeeping, and how funds were allocated to his outposts in South Ithilien, and she was quick to learn. He was surprised that this should give her such joy, but he assumed it to be a sign of her tender nature to want to serve him, and he was touched by her devotion. He had no need to read the papers before him, since indeed all they contained was in his mind, so while she puzzled and read he contented himself in studying the small lines on her brow, and inhaling the sweet sent of her hair, as though he could memorize her as well.

Denethor afterward spent more time at home. At night Finduilas copied out his notes or read missives that he might rest his eyes, and by spending much time together they grew closer. Now that she saw some of the ways in which the battles were fought, and how she might aid them, she feared the shadow less. Denethor tried to spare her the more sorrowful duties and gloss over some of the dangers. This he attempted by keeping the casualties from her, and the accounts of the enemies' strength, rather having her focus on smaller details such as pay and supplies. Just as a he had as a boy learned, so was she soon calculating costs and orders for him, and her days were full and seemed to her happily purposeful. It gave her great joy that they labored together, and it amused him too. It was in this time when she conceived her first son.

Several months later Finduilas was further with child, and she grew ever more lovely with the glow of young motherhood. Denethor was often with her, and in this they had Miriel to thank. For unbeknownst to her mistress she had made complaint to Ecthelion, and as he too had perceived his daughter's delicate health and tendency to brood, he made gave more of the command of the city to Denethor to keep him at home.

Denethor noticed but did not comment, for he too worried about his wife. He took pains to humor her in her condition. She found him tender and attentive, and he tutored her in her studies as he had when she was a child, and showed her much of his plans and designs since that was her wish. So for a little while each fulfilled the desires of the other, and their relationship changed from the giddy fires of youth into a dignified friendship, though Finduilas yet hoped for a partnership, and Denethor still sought to keep in her the innocent youth that he thought so strange and rare.

The months passed and Finduilas' time came. Finduilas had always seemed sweet yet frail to him, and he was caught with a cold and unfamiliar fear when she went into labor. For the first time in his life he was truly helpless. For he had not realized how dear she was to him, and how little of the world's ills he could truly shield her from. He felt like a rogue for bringing this on her, who had trusted him with her protection. He paced restlessly for hours as the midwives ran back and forth. He heard the gasps of Finduilas' pain, and felt great wonder that maids could so often bear such an experience. He heard the midwives scolding, reassuring, and clucking in turn. Then a cry came through the door, such a loud cry, but not from his wife. The door flew open and a smiling nurse appeared. She beamed at him, and lifted a dark red, wet, noisy bundle, swathed in a blanket of white.

"Will you not meet the new heir of Mardil my lord?" the midwife asked.

Denethor approached and she set the tiny thing in his arms. He looked at the bawling mouth, and it quieted and the tiny fingers curled. He put his own hand near the infant's, and felt the little hand of his son grasp at it. He felt a wonder unknown to him, and he entered the room that smelled queerly of blood and birth. His wife, sweating and pale, lay before him, but her eyes were stars. At that moment he felt that they shared all things, his strength remarkably in her to go through such pain, and her wonder and innocence grew in his own heart, that such a miracle could occur.

"Boromir," he said in a dazed voice. "For here indeed will be a constant wonder and delight to me." Then a nurse wisely stepped forward and took the babe. Denethor stepped forward and took the hand of his wife, and she smiled and said, "Yes, he is wonderful."

Boromir was a wonder indeed; for Denethor glowed with such warmth he seemed a new man. Ecthelion crowed almost as though the boy was his own, and in his spare time he talked of little else. Miriel tended her lady, happy that the hours of books could be replaced with more natural womanly concerns. Adrahil sent fine gifts and Imrahil to meet his nephew. The entire kingdom rejoiced in the lad, and it was not only the midwives that buzzed with tales: how much he grew, cried, wet, and ate. The entire city seemed enthralled. Denethor again held his father's heart, and if he shared it with this baby, it mattered to him not at all. Finduilas gained strength daily, and all seemed as right as it could be in those darkening times.

The only shadow that bothered Denethor's heart now was the poor health of his wife. The pregnancy itself had seemed to agree with her, but Finduilas was very ill after her son's birth, and she complained often of the cold, so Denethor had made for her in secret a warm cloak. He described it to the weavers, and had it worked with gems. It was a brilliant dark blue, like the night sky in Dol Amroth, bright with stars. He presented it to her one day as she sat nursing Boromir in the garden, and he saw that it pleased her greatly. He often felt now the insecurity that other men feel in courtship. His wife had become more than a mere mortal, a great magic she contained, that she must contain to bear such a son. As for his son, he was desperate with his own lack of knowledge. In no scroll of the kingdom had he read how to burp an infant, but oddly he felt no anger at the midwife's laugher. Only wonder, at so many new things, and such joy.

Although he was greatly changed he still went on patrol, and ever was first with the duties of steward. At times his family slipped entirely from his mind as he worked, and then he would return and rediscover his love for them, like a wonderful gift bestowed anew. He kept them at home like jewels to return and delight over. It was pleasant for him to live this way, but not for those who loved him and were jealous of his company.


	11. With a Faltering Heart

What I Would Have

Ch X: With a Faltering Heart

As water eventually cuts through stone, so did the love of Finduilas ever move Denethor, and with the birth of his first-born son Boromir, he seemed almost to be a different man. Finduilas was pleased to have him so happy, and the doubts that came early in her marriage seemed foolish now. Blood and pain she had endured, and she understood now how men could willingly suffer in battle. But she did not love duty as much as her husband, whereas Denethor could love no one more than his country. Still there were now more golden afternoons, she in her midnight cloak holding their son, and he resting beside her in the grass. If the papers he bent over were requisition orders she did not mind, and in turn if she now was denied all work save for the sake of her son, it seemed worth it to her when she beheld Denethor's eyes lingering over her and the child rather than on the work in front of him.

This for them was a time of great joy and happiness, yet Denethor worried in the back of his mind; for Thorongil now led most of the campaigns that were, and no kingdom ever rested easily when the one who ruled its lands was not the one who fought for them. Often did Ecthelion forbid him to lead expeditions, for the Steward perceived that Denethor had great love for his family, yet that very love would drive him to battle. It was with an effort that he spent time with his family, dear as they were. When he indulged himself in playing with his boy or holding his wife it was ever in his mind that he denied others the same joys. Nor could he ignore the shadow that dimmed the noon sun over their heads. Like all golden hours they became beloved for their brevity, for duty spurred Denethor on, and he could not long stay by her side, and soon he had left again.

Left to his own will, Denethor's love was of bitter skirmishes fought under far trees, and when that was at last all but forbidden by Ecthelion, of late night councils marked only by the growing number of smoking candle stubs. The thought of his family ever drove him to sharpen his blade against the growing power of Mordor, for thus was the temperament of Denethor. And thus did his love make him even sterner and grimmer, save when he looked upon them. Then his features would soften and his eyes seem deep and warm. Those who saw him walking with his young son in his arms, or talking gently with his wife, scarcely knew him, so great was the change when he was in their company.

* * *

While Finduilas changed Denethor, so also did he work great change in her. As she watched the love between her husband and son grow, and was glad of it, she herself began once again to feel spent and forgotten. Her labor had been difficult and the shadow was now ever darker. It seemed often to Finduilas now that mankind was fated to darkness, yet those around her cared little for this fate. Indeed they seemed almost to revel in their role of fighting a foe so mighty, while she cared little for war. The valor of men had lost its youthful appeal to her, and she longed for a lord safe at home. Despite Ecthelion's efforts, too often was her bed empty and the only company the prattling of her infant son. She had lost her girlhood hopes with her fancies, and her days were bleak and empty. Like her namesake of old, Finduilas had faced the shadow to save the man she loved, only to find him more in love with his combat of the shadow than she.

But for any weakness in her frame her spirit now burned all the brighter. Giving birth had been painful in a physical way unknown to her, and she knew that the healers fretted far beyond what was normal, despite the cheerful assurances of her maid. Yet with the experience came knew strength. She no longer feared the physical, even onto the point of death. Pain she knew now was not without limit, and could be born. She had faced the test, and the love in her heart was proven greater.

* * *

On a fair day several weeks after the birth of Boromir she was allowed to return to her own quarters. There in her private garden the shadow of the east was clearly visible, and even as she beheld it spreading over the sky it seemed to reach towards her infant as he played with some late blossoms upon the ground. It might have been a passing cloud, but at that moment she watched the sky above him darken, and what filled her heart then was not cold fear but quick rage. Rather than shrink from the shadow that at times cast itself over the wall she raged against it. But then her son, wondering at her inattention began to fret and her thoughts were diverted for a time.

Denethor threw himself body and soul against that same shadow she knew; yet she was unable to aid him in battle. Seeking to put her mind at peace, Finduilas again sought her old activities; Miriel was delighted with Boromir, and paid little heed when she began again to pick through Denethor's reports. This time she read them all, and increasingly she became aware of the cost by which Gondor was defended. Before she had been content to carry on his domestic affairs that she could, and she felt her purpose noble. But now even over smiling afternoon teas with other men's wives she was aware of the politics. She had once felt that by faithfully supporting Denethor she would be achieving something great and noble. Now she found that his ideas had deep impact on the world they lived in, from whether a farmer's wife had an extra blanket to how many men marched to support a town. And that behind these policies were lives. As she pushed for his desire to release an outlying town from the protection of Gondor she wondered what mother's son would die nonetheless defending it; and whose anguished eyes would cry to see it razed.

Now that she was over her illness Denethor had become distant. When he did arrive in the city he might stop by unannounced to see her and Boromir, he would kiss each perfunctorily, and make inquiries as to their health, and then leave. Or he might give her some direction or review how her small devices were progressing before he left for Ithilien or a foray in the south. Sometimes she awoke to find he had visited and left, the only proof of his presence a letter containing directions for her. She wanted the man in her arms rather then his ideas on a paper, and these feelings seemed to her strange and shameful. Yet they had for years continued as they were, and the weight of tradition cast fetters about her. She could not voice to her husband that a few short years had all but reversed her mind and heart. Nor could she find some way to tell him that she found that actually living as his wife was less pleasing than she had imagined. She was determined to continue to aid him, to not vex him, and these thoughts seemed to her very vexing indeed. Denethor however took no notice of these growing frustrations in his wife, in part because he did not look for it. If her voice was at times sharper than it had been he decided it was due to the strains of mothering so young a child, and let it be at that.

* * *

While she worked as his promoter and confidant she kept a quick ear for the results of those activities her husband assigned her to. As time wore on she began to suspect that he was not always right, and though her faith in him remained, it was shaken. She knew that if he were in error she should oppose him, indeed she felt it her duty, yet she was too ignorant of the matters in which she was now involved. It was in this state of mind, a wretched and dogged uncertainty that she could not dispel that she first encountered Thorongil alone.

She had put down Boromir for a nap, with his nursemaid watching over him, and had walked out to enjoy the unsullied light of the sunset before it vanished behind the mountains. She walked out into a garden near the kitchens where she was reasonably sure of solitude. To her surprise it was occupied. When the tall man leaning on the wall turned at the sound of her entrance she recognized him. She couldn't very well turn and leave, and with a failing heart she approached him.

Thorongil saw that she had come for solitude, and was weary. He was also aware of her husband's dislike and knew that she, no doubt, was ill-pleased by his presence. Yet beneath that was a kindness, and beneath the sad weariness that sat upon her there was a warm fire and humor that seemed to only lack an outlet or encouragement. He though suddenly of a maiden embracing one of the stone statues of the court and his heart was touched. Young Boromir was a sign that Denethor had something other than ice in his veins, yet he doubted her hours were filled with either tenderness or amusement. As the she approached she straightened to her full small height, her face froze into a gracious but not excessive smile, her head lifted proudly. The poor armor of women as they go into drawing room battles. He sighed, for he was weary of battle, and as she was quiet close she noticed this as well and a sudden understanding passed between the two of them. They looked with awe and fear at each other, as young men will do upon a field a battle when they look into the eyes of the enemy and see such a one as themselves.

In the warm peach light of sunset there seemed little to say, it was peace each had sought, and for a short time peace was theirs. Thorongil, however, soon awakened to the fact that he had stood long in silence with another man's wife in a secluded garden. Before she could recollect herself into anger or vexation he decided he resolved he would speak to her, and see if he could ease her burden.

"My Lady Finduilas, I have not had the pleasure in a long time."

"Captain Thorongil," she smiled, "not since last midsummer's day. Though you seldom seem absent as you are on everyone's tongue."

"I cannot say the same, it has been long since you have gone beyond these walls."

"And do you often go beyond them to the city below?"

"Indeed fair lady, man cannot live on bread and battle alone."

She laughed at this clumsy old quote, "Nay lord, I think you would not live at all if you denied the ladies of Gondor their favorite bachelor's presence."

He smiled a little ruefully, "Am I then?"

"It is not what you seek?" she asked in some confusion.

"No, but their kindness is fearsome enough- I am determined to avoid their animosity." He replied with a teasing look in his eyes.

"You fear our ladies?" she teased in turn.

"No, I desire to have no animosity here in the city with so much outside."

And though still smiling she looked serious then and said, "You stir up much with your policies."

He looked away out over the city, "It is not my intention."

She replied softly, "That I know, you both have the same end."

She was unconsciously beginning to mention her husband. He guessed correctly that this was at or near the root of her troubles and for the first time honest and genuine anger at Denethor grew in his heart. But he did not speak for he wished her to continue, and after a short time, almost to herself, she did, " I do not understand…" Then she paused as if afraid to continue.

"What do you not understand?" he gently pressed, moving closer beside her and turning to view her face.

She turned from the view as well and her face was flushed with daring but at the same time drawn as if in pain. "The truth! Who is right, if I could just believe it was he!"

Then she paused and colored but he caught her under the chin. Running a hard and battle coarsened hand over her cheek. She stepped back from him, as if unused to any man's touch, and he relented and folded her hands into his own.

"Neither of us know Lady Finduilas." He began gently "We all feel doubt, it is perhaps why we must insist that others do not doubt us."

Then it seemed that he was reproving her, but rather than awaken anger it seemed shameful and she felt as though she would weep. At the sight of tears swimming in her eyes Thorongil released her hands.

"I speak no reproach, dear lady, I spoke thoughtlessly before, and you were not my object. All men speak of you as a model wife. And so you are, it is written in him, he needs you very much."

She shook her head, "Nay, perhaps I have eased his burden, and so I have tried. But he does not need me. He needs no one."

And Thorongil shook his head and replied, "No man is capable of fighting alone. I fear in this city you see and hear of us only at our worst or most desperate, but most of battle is spent in desolation and boredom, and in those hours he is no longer alone, and of all thing you are most in his thoughts."

Then she recollected herself a little for the light was fading, "Nay, Gondor is ever in his thoughts."

"Because you are in it. That is why he drives himself so."

Finduilas shook her head, but she had no will to oppose him and his gentleness was both enticing and bitter to her. Then the light left entirely, and darkness was come. Then it seemed to Finduilas that they were too close, and their conversation too private, and it seemed as though it should be her husband before her, telling her such tender things, and then did she understand the counsel of her brother, and she knew not what to say. She stepped away and looked towards the east where the land was blackest. But even as she did her back straightened with resolve. Thorongil noticed her desire to leave and looking on her with pity, bowed.

* * *

Finduilas returned to her quarters to find her husband inside bending over Boromir's crib. She approached behind him, and suddenly moved to tenderness put her arms around him.

"What was the campaign like?" she murmured to his back.

He frowned, "I do not wish to talk about it. We lost too much. More perhaps than I foresaw."

He reached for her hands and removed them from around him, "I need you to dine with lady Morwen next week, her cousin Deor trades grain. If he were to perhaps cut the amount he sold us, I could convince the council that this aggressiveness cavalry is too costly in gold, since they seem to not feel the loss of men"

She wrung her hands, and then resolved to ask her question, "Why should we not fight back?"

He laughed a little, "Is this the same girl who wept after her first campaign here? Next you will want a battalion."

She frowned at this, but his tone was not all in jest. He was surprised that she should questions his policies, since she had never done so before, but the moment between them passed because Boromir had begun to pull on his father's hand and shout "a battalion father! a battalion!"

He swept Boromir up in his arms. "And you as well, eh? What would you wish, lancers? A ship of the line like Uncle Imrahil?"

The boy laughed not understanding his words, and in a high delighted voice proclaimed, "Mumakil!"

Denethor laughed. "Oh, he's no son of mine. Mumakil is it? You'd trample all underfoot? Here's your Mumakil."

Then he placed the boy, shrieking with delight, upon his head and lurched about the room with him. Finduilas watched and laughed. She delighted to see them together, but now such plays, even the innocent prattle of her son, recalled the terrible images of Rath Dinen. When Boromir was at last induced back into bed she had little energy to take up the argument again. She claimed to be tired, and retired to her own quarters.

* * *

Miriel helped her to undress and then followed her with candlelight to check on her son. On the way back to her room she approached her husband's door but did not enter. She stood outside for a long moment, then motioned her maid to prepare her own bed. The latter, felt pity for the young wife who so frequently slept alone

"If you'll forgive me madam, he is not often here…"

Finduilas shook her head quietly, but fingered her dressing gown uncertainly.

"Come," said Miriel. "I will comb out thy hair"

She hummed as she brushed and tucked the golden hair about Finduilas' face, coaxing some strands down into becoming curls. Then she fetched cloth and warm water to bath her face and hands.

"There" she said at last, "now you look a proper vision for your lord. When you are older you will not so much hesitate. 'Tis always a pleasure for a man to behold his wife, and armies of men and orcs make poor rivals."

Hearing her concerns voiced in such earthy and flippant tones made Finduilas at once start and blush, and brought a pleasing color to her cheeks.

"There, you're a picture my lady," Miriel said, finishing the last touches by pulling her gown back just slightly off of her shoulders. "He'll undue my work in no time"

Finduilas now turned crimson and made as though she would scold her, this encouraged Miriel greatly for she rejoiced at the signs of spirit returning. She retreated towards the door, opening it and leading Finduilas down the hall and back towards Denethor. As they neared his chamber she then muttered half to herself, "And a lovely thing you are. Well, that is the way of women isn't it? We bring all that is gentle and pretty into the world. We bear them and for them as well. And they bear us down- go to. Save those bright eyes for thy lord."

Then she opened the door and Finduilas quietly entered the room. Denethor was still up and dressed, with stacks of papers settled by his window. Yet he laid them aside when he saw her, and brought her into his arms.

* * *

So things for a while between them were mended, but the doubt remained in Finduilas' heart. Above all other men she wished him to be right, but her faith in his virtue made her think that if she could but present an argument to him that he would consider, and if she was indeed right would amend his ways. She picked an ill time to ask him. Denethor had been arguing long with his father and Thorongil, who both desired to strike Umbar again, in order to stop the flow of troops form the south. Denethor felt that should they fail the fleet would be too weakened to repel an all out invasion. But he could see that his father' s heart was turned toward Thorongil, and he had no doubt the Steward would give him the ships he demanded. He had no desire to mull over this same argument in his own quarters, so when Finduilas began to question his recent requests of her to write to her father to withdraw his ships, he was taken aback.

"Never before have you questioned me, who has asked this of you?" Denethor demanded.

"Asked?" Finduilas replied her, frustration spilling over, "No one has asked this of me. Is it not obvious? Do we not have enough dead? Is not the city already crowded with those who have lost all but their lives while we refuse to help? Am I wrong then to seek an answer? I can not walk through these halls without seeing my people are suffering."

He followed her into her room, "Why must you see what is evil, is there not enough evil outside of these gates?"

"Why am I the only one required to believe that nothing is wrong while a shadow descends upon our heads?" she replied.

"It is what is demanded of us all," Denethor said quietly.

"Your sacrifice is demanded for this city?" she questioned, "That is your duty- to cast to the flames all of our lives? "

And Denethor replied coldly, "That is the duty of a steward, to protect what he has undertaken to guard. It is the duty of a ruler to ask more of himself than any of his subjects. It is the duty of a leader to perform what he would ask of others. You cannot pretend to ignorance in these matters."

Finduilas then lowered her head and turned away, "I do not. I do not quarrel with your duties."

"Then where lies your quarrel?" exclaimed Denethor exasperated

"With you." She replied.

"With me?" He said astonished, "What have I done beyond exactly what is required?"

"Nothing." She said somewhat bitterly, "You have done nothing beyond what is required. I am sorry we are so irksome a duty to you."

Denethor's eyes flashed dangerously, "You are raving."

And Finduilas responded with fire of her own, "Then I am raving, I wish to rave. I want to."

"Stop now," he commanded advancing, "You are upset, this behavior is unbefitting."

And she turned back to him and raged, "Then I wish to be unbefitting. I want you beside me and not always in battle. I want something more from my life than stonewalls and miserable duties. Why should we sit and wait for this ever-approaching shadow with grim and proper faces?

And then she stopped. Though she was a high lady and of great will, it was not in her nature to oppose others, but rather to bear for them. He had never seen her in this light before. The swiftness with which he would have repelled such a questioning from a subordinate or from another man was repelled by her sex and his love for her, and he was only able to bow wordlessly and leave.

If he had known he could have found now crueler reply than this continued silence: the silence that reproached her vain attempts to assert her life in the face of so much death; the silence of the people of Gondor itself that so terrified her; the blind, limping, mourning, and sanctifying silence that demanded constant obeisance. She sank to the floor once he had left, and it seemed she no longer had the strength to even weep.

If he had returned he would have found her sitting thus, would have gathered her in his arms, but as it were he wandered the halls far into the night. He viewed himself in a new light, but rather than make plans to amend his faults he cast instead for whom had illuminated her to these faults she perceived. That her new motherhood and growing maturity were the only authors never entered his mind. As ever Thorongil once again weighed most heavily in his thoughts and now it seemed the man would supplant himself in those he most loved.


	12. Riddled Matters

_Thanks for the comments everyone, I'm trying to be as accurate as possible, which is hard when there are no foils to show how great and noble everyone is supposed to be. I intended to stay with Denethor, but I have to admit Finduilas took a lot of thought, I eventually decided her to be a sort of ill-fated Dorothea. People seem to not have liked the battle chapter, but it seemed impossible to write about so many soldiers without trying to show them in action. I found no clear records as to Imrahil, so I've played with him more than the others._

What I Would Have 

Ch X: Riddled Matters

Denethor came back to their quarters before daybreak and awoke and dined in the morning with his family. Finduilas looked fairly wretched from a night's weeping, but she made no outward show as well. They slid into the silence of politeness. Then insidiously and unbidden the distance that rested between him and all others now began to creep into his own quarters. It became a tightness around his wife's mouth, it settled into the chairs, and between the stacks of papers. And to see this grieved him, yet his life as the future steward gave him no time with which to sort through his personal affairs.

He was increasingly worried about Thorongil's desire for more open war on Umbar. Should the armies of Harad amass, Gondor would be unprepared, and as they sent men south, columns of orcs from Morder scattered over the northlands as ruinous companies. Most troubling was that they skirted Gondor's borders, passing into the world around. That they harassed Rohan was certain from reports, but whither then? He could ill afford to open a new front, and the porous borders were a pressing concern, and men were short. Denethor brooded on these thoughts in silence as he walked the halls before his father's morning council.

He smelled fire then as he paced by the Court of the White Tree, and he feared an accident. But he found when he entered that the gnarled, dead tree still stood beside the mournfully gurgling fountain; nothing was amiss. At last he traced the source of the smell to a balcony window that overlooked the city, and there was Thorongil, pulling at a pipe and breathing the smoke out through his mouth like a dragon.

Resenting the added worry to an already trying day Denethor remarked, "Rather a nasty habit."

Throrongil continued to gaze over the city, and slowly took the pipe from his mouth before saying in a meditative manner, "It takes some adjustment, and it is hard to indulge in when one patrols with the rangers."

"You weary of guarding Ithilien then?" Denethor pressed, feeling uncharitable.

"I weary of fighting to lose Ithilien, inch by inch, over these years" Thorongil replied.

Denethor also affected a casual air as he surveyed the morning, "I had wondered why you are so keen to sacrifice the lives of my men to Umbar."

"Say rather: I would not have their sacrifice be in vain," replied Thorongil with a trace of fire. "We lose our advantage through inaction, and if Gondor could retake its old land, and secure the banks of Pauros, then we could count our south and make the homes in it safe for a time, and reposition our men in the north. But this you already know."

"Indeed, "replied Denethor, "I already know your tales to my father, yet still I wonder why you are not content to fight at my side here in Gondor but rather strive for glory at great cost to ourselves. And I wonder even more why indeed we should support this, if you are not content to remain in defense of Gondor."

"What I win I win for Gondor." Thorongil said tersely, finally snuffing the pipe with the palm of his hand.

"Yes, well, it is a pretty game," Denethor replied with acid, "but winning for and giving to are different things, are they not? I heard Mithrandir was expected in the city, I suppose you shall now sway the Steward's heart with long dead tales of glory, and fill his ears with tales so that he cannot listen to the casualties when they come in."

"A pretty game?" said Thorongil, "No it is most perilous, and I do not think it a game. But if you will, I doubt very much that your father is so easily swayed, even by Mithrandir."

"We shall see, I have thought on it. I am the son, and will soon be heir unless you have forgotten, and then things will be less to your liking here, I fear." Then in order to retain his image of power Denethor shrugged as though unconcerned and began to walk away; he knew in his heart that his father had was already working to equip Thorongil, without the council of his son. "I can lose to you a round and yet retain my power here, Captain."

"You'll always play to win." Thorongil replied evenly.

Denethor turned as he walked through the door, "So will you, Captain, so will you."

* * *

Denethor presented himself at his father's council chamber within the hour and received a surprising lesson in how swiftly Thorongil worked. The other lords practically smirked at him, and he caught many sideways glances. He knew not what the matter was until he was informed by Furlong, his bilious face a tremble with anticipation, that Thorongil sailed within the hour for an assault against the rebels of Umbar, he had taken three ships, and the rest of the assault fleet was reportedly to be supplied by Belfalas. The Lord of Dol Amroth himself had purposed to sail with Thorongil. Denethor was silent at receiving the news, but he felt the discontent wash through the room. They had wanted to see the Steward's son react to this latest information, but Denethor retained his usual show of icy indifference, and now their attention was withdrawn to more personal matters. Now that the first excitement had passed they awaited the unknown, whether they would provoke a great power to attack, or cripple it for a time. Ecthelion sat at the head of the council table, and he did not look at Denethor, but he rested his head in his hand as one who was greatly wearied, and Denethor saw he was deeply troubled. The table was strewn with maps, and many now petitioned Ecthelion for additional forces to secure their borders, in particular those who held interest in Ithilien. Denethor sat long silent and brooding, playing every hill and town over in his mind. The finger smudged maps were punded by mailed fists as arguments ran to and fro, roads were traced with fingers, voices lifted in praise as to a particular area's worth. But the mind of Denethor was on long prepared outposts, many of whom were not recorded on any map by law of the steward, and the men he had placed there. Finally after quietly listening, yet seemingly unmoved, like a tower beset with winds, Ecthelion stirred and spoke:

"What seems best to you Lord Denethor?"

And Denethor replied evenly, as though he and his father had consulted all night, and agreed upon the sailing, "I would not move much without news, should we succeed in this than there will be no need for security in the south for many months. Should we fail we must expect to be attacked swiftly. However, I can not spare the borders of North Ithilien."

The Lord of Lossarnach frowned, "Rohan guards our northern plains, and Isenguard to a fashion- as has been the purpose of your forefathers."

Denethor replied in the same even voice, "but not enough, I deem. Within the fortnight I myself will visit these patrols, and choose what reappointments seem best." For he knew that of all the lords, only Imrahil would regularly make the perilous rides to the outposts, and he was at home with his knights.

Then Ecthelion nodded, "Be it as you say then, Denethor."

He left the council room then, and sought his wife. That she had petitioned her father to her own will rather than to his, he was all but certain. Her tears then seemed to him in show, and he felt he bitterly had now learned the extent of Thorongil's devices. His father's heart was swayed by Mithrandir, while his closest companion had been turned on him by Thorongil, no doubt. He now wished almost for a defeat, rather than the triumph of his rival.

* * *

In an evil mood he returned to his quarters, he gathered all of his work into a large pile, and loading two servants with it, carried it to a remote corner room of the tower. He had always done his own scribe work, save for official messages that could be recorded aloud. He had little trust in the accuracy of others, for he knew men were want to fail, and in addition he had little trust in their purposes. Men talked, and a secret in the ears of a servant was soon a truth known by all. When he had worked with Finduilas he had placed a great deal of trust in her. She seemed to have great loyalty to him, and her own ignorance of what exactly he was writing made her an ideal helpmate, but she had proved bitterly sharp, like ice beneath a layer of water, perilous yet hidden by its own transparency. He could no longer indulge himself in such openness. So he set up a new private office below the top room of the steward's tower, which for years beyond count had served as the house of the Palantir of Minas Tirith.

He sat all day and long into the night in his new office, rearranging the papers and desperately ignoring the memories of her hands transcribing them, of her soft weight beside him, or the loving looks she had bestowed upon him while he had explained them to her. He had taken great comfort in seeing her countenance sweetly frowning in concentration whenever he chanced to look up from his work. It had been a luxury he realized, and a foolish one. Denethor looked at the work in front of him, Thorongil had beaten him in yet another round, and if he was going to rectify the situation it would not be done through sitting idly. Despite this resolve, he sat looking at the glowing city beneath him, and the shadow of the east before him, like a cloud edging across a starry sky.

All awaited then for a stroke of doom, for news from the south, and the eyes of the city frequently turned that way. During those days Denethor did not return to his chamber at all, he did not sleep and ate only once, when he heard light footsteps leave a tray at the base of the tower stairs. They were his wife's he knew, but he waited a long while before he descended the stairs and found the meal there. There was a note tucked into the napkin, but he was wrathful now at himself for dallying at an affair of the heart while his country was in peril, so he amused himself by turning the bit of paper in the flame on his desk, and watching it slowly eat away down to his fingertips. The whole while he was searching all of his papers, and by order his servants brought him all reports. He had been outmaneuvered once before. His experience fighting with Thorongil had taught him the man' s zeal for flanking maneuvers, so while others gazed to the southeast Denethor was wary of the northwest. He had no news from there of movements, and he did not lay any suspicions on his lords of Anorien or Lossarnach, yet both had a good deal of Rohan in them, the blood of lesser men. They were bluff and friendly, and straightforward, good soldiers and masters, but plainly shaped for simpler times. He could not forget that his troubles now issued from the north: that from his northern kinsmen was Thorongil sprung, that the rangers had wandered wide, that a dragon had fallen and the dwarves were on the move, that there was at least one wizard hard on his northern borders. Then he looked long and hard at that which all other men long neglected, he studied inked numbers, wheat and barley, iron, leather straps, price fluctuations. And through the ever-increasing lines of figures he began to see a pattern. He did not berate himself for missing it, for it was slow to build; though it was ever increasing, it had been masked by Gondor's own recent trade explosion and military expansions. Denethor seldom looked far beyond Gondor in trade or aught else, but now he saw a more careful eye at least was needed, for over the past years, though out his father's time and ever increasing now to his own, the south of Rohan had equipped enough for a tower guard in the thousands. Yet those goods were not in Rohan, nor were there such men, besides Rohan had its own farms and horses, and these lists suggested much iron and meats, an infantry as it were. Then Denethor felt a fire in his heart, for it seemed an enemy had grown as silently as a forest to his back while he had been entrenched in the sands of the south.

* * *

Ecthelion was well pleased the next day with the arrival of Mithrandir, as he often was when he felt doubt. And so was Denethor to an extent, for here was more than a man, and an enemy of the shadow, and a wizard. Denethor though now had knowledge that he gambled Mithrandir did not, and when the breathless runner brought him news of the arrival he quickly readied himself to meet him. He wanted to test his news and Mithrandir's reaction, that Saruman had begun to heavily fortify his little tower of Orthanc; and it led Denethor to wonder if Mithrandir did not also desire such a place, or perhaps a city of the men of the west for his own.

So when Mitrhadndir again approached the black seat of Ecthelion, Denethor stood beside it. Mithrandir's face indeed seemed joyful at beholding his father, but he seemed rushed and distracted, he asked leave of Ecthelion to go through the records of the city.

Denethor then interrupted his petition, a thing he seldom did, "What is it you ask of my father?"

The old head turned towards him, though the eyes stayed on the Steward who had leaned forward and was listening to his son, "Leave to go through these papers, to search the records of Gondor."

"Yes, our documents and lore are much sought by the wizards of middle earth, almost as much as they desire iron."

"Much sought, Lord Denethor?" Mithrandir echoed, this time turning his keen eyes to him.

"Not long ago Saruman the White, friend of Rohan- he too came and asked this leave of my father" Denethor replied, but he had no purpose of contention for now, he offered information for information.

"He used to come here often Lord Denethor, before your father's time," Mithrandir said, eyes darting back to Ecthelion, who nodded.

Frustrated at the lack of courtesy, for plainly Mithrandir was going to keep his secrets, Denethor pointedly drew back the conversation, "And yet he does not share this knowledge with you."

Ecthelion turned then to his son and frowned, "Does it displease you that Mithrandir is here Denethor?"

"Nay Lord, forgive me if I spoke before you," Denethor said, and he left bowing. But he waited outside his father's door for Mithrandir to receive his inevitable permission, and then he waylaid him outside the doors of the hall.

"There is little in this city I do no know Mithrandir, perhaps you yourself do not reckon with that." Denethor said stepping forward.

Mithrandir for once seemed flustered, and he looked straight into Denethor's eyes as he spoke "I would not keep knowledge form any man who fought the shadow, but I am racing against time." With these words he began to quickly cross the stones of the hall, turning right at the end and towards the stones that would take him to the lower halls were documents were kept in great musty rows.

"Yet the rest of us wait at the pleasure of your companion and friend Captain Thorongil. And so you must wait with us I fear." Denethor replied icily.

Mithrandir continued his walk towards the records halls at a pace that could scarce be credited to one of his supposed age. Denethor walked calmly behind him, until at last he was obligated to speak again, "What can I do for you my lord?"

They approach the doors to the stairs, which the guards opened at a nod from Denethor, and they began to walk down the curving stone steps. Their steps echoed up above them, and at last when they had reached near the bottom Mithrandir now began to walk through the stacks. Denethor made metal note of each twist and turn, and that Mithrandir plainly seemed to be seeking one thing in particular. As they made their way through the silent stacks Denethor spoke again in a quiet voice.

"Your captain does not care for this Saruman, and neither do you, for you contrive to never be here at the same time."

"And have you met with Saruman my lord?" Mithrandir said distractedly.

This angered Denethor for he had not and disliked any forced show of ignorance, "he has met with my father."

"And Ecthelion did not care for him either, does that not suffice for you?" Mithrandir questioned.

Denethor looked long into his bright eyes, for they had ceased walking among the scrolls of Isildur's short reign, "No he did not. I thought perhaps though, as he is one of your order, that you might tell me why he is building an army at Isenguard?"

And then Denethor saw that Mithrandir had not known this. Indeed Denethor did not fully know it himself, but it was a likely guess. He had watched the flow of iron and grain through the northlands, and he knew what they portended, having done as much so many times himself. There was a long silence in which the two looked eye to eye, and then Mithrandir lowered his head and Denethor saw he looked as troubled and aged as Ecthelion.

"I have not known this Lord Denethor," muttered Mithrandir, "and it seems I am not the only one who brings troubling council."

Denethor replied softly, "Yet it is true, despite its nature."

And Mithrandir nodded, "that he is preparing for battle it certain, and he is of a great wisdom and long sight."

"He fears a coming battle," replied Denethor.

"It is most likely, so now I have another riddle on my hands." Replied Mithrandir, "It is long since I sought his council, and now I clearly must do so again. Give me leave Lord, for ever my tasks grows as time wears thin."

Then Denethor bowed and left, but this confrontation gave him no answers, and no joy, for if anything he now felt some slight kinship with Mithrandir, as one opponent may respect the abilities of another.

He waited long in his tower until he saw Mithrandir in the courtyard below, and he watched him wind his way down through the levels of the city in great haste. Only then did he rise, and walk through the warm hall past his own quarters, were he heard the sound of Boromir's bath, and his wife singing. He did not pause, but walked into the main hall, passed a startled maid and to the entrance to the hall of records. He opened the stairs and retraced his steps. It was not hard to find the scrolls, for the dust was fairly thick and that which was recently disturbed was obvious even to one who was not trained as a ranger of Ithilien. The smell of candle smoke, thick and waxy still lingered, and he carefully unrolled the material, and let the wood settled where it had last been pulled open. And there he saw what Mithrandir had long poured over, the final days of Isildur. It was not something that Denethor had read gladly in his youth, for he had no use for tales of forgotten glories or archaic mistakes, that which could not be set to work in Minas Tirith or in the field. But here he saw what Mithrandir had long studied, and he read the words describing Sauron's ring. He knew now what the wizards both longed for, or so he thought; another thing of wizardry, but with the power to overthrow man, or at least a weak man. He scowled at the words written on the ring, for he could not understand them, and they were in an alien tongue that sounded most akin to the foul oaths of orcs. He was pleased though to discover this part of the wizard's plan, and it awoke in him a desire to ride forth as soon as possible to check the northlands for other clues. He went quickly back to his quarters to pack.

His quarter were empty save for his slumbering son and nurse. He wondered as to his wife's absence, but he was in great haste and had much to think on. He stopped to kiss Boromir on the brow, and watch as his son smiled in his sleep and flexed a chubby fist. Then he made his way to the stables and made his horse ready, and departed. He left by a back gate so as to not lose time, and because of this he missed the great excitement of the city, which had awakened his wife and father, and indeed was spreading quickly but quietly from house to house: Thorongil had over thrown the captain of the corsairs himself and set fire to their fleet, the quays of Umbar were destroyed.

* * *

When the news reached her that Denethor had left on his mission Finduilas felt more restless than ever. She could not bear the thought of another bleak waiting, punctuated with grim silences. Since his recent withdrawl she did not expect to recive any news from him directly, and the thought was trying. On the day after he left there was a strong sea wind blowing, and the people rejoiced that it would swiftly return their triumphant fleet to them. She found herself watching the south sky rather than north to her husband, and the cries of the crowds of the city seemed almost like gulls to her. Then Miriel was there with young Boromir, and he wept that his father was gone, and she returned to the dark room, and her son was heavy in her arms.

Had she not been born a maid she would have faced her fears in battle, and come to know victory as well, but as a woman she remained in terrible ignorance, waiting only at home for a stroke of doom. Still though the news was all good- only one ship was lost, she felt a great emptiness in her heart, more than even her husband's ill behavior could warrant. That she suffered alone made her suffering that much more unbearable. She longed for the happiness and carefree days of her youth, and at times the Anduin called to her. The blowing sea breezes stirred the somber hangings of her room, and troubled her dreams as she slept.

With Denethor only days from home a somber young messenger appeared outside her door and knelt. She felt her heart begin to stop with terror, and if she could find her voice she would have ordered him to go back. But she was merely bidden to appear before the Steward. With a pounding heart she entered the great hall. There Ecthelion rose at her entrance and approached her. She read pity on his face but not great sorrow, and her heart beat again for she knew her husband was safe. Then he gently took her hands in his and said, "My dear daughter, I thought I should be the one to tell you. We lost a ship in the battle with corsairs. Your brother Imrahil is now Lord Prince of Dol Amroth."

Then, though her son was yet young, she begged leave of her father-in-law to visit her childhood home to mourn her kin. He was loath to grant it without the presence of his son, but he could scarce deny her filial claims. So he sent her with escort and in 2980 she returned again to the land of her kin, to the ocean she loved, and to her brother. There she saw many she had known and missed, though never again would she see her father, yet for a while she walked under clear sunshine and in that warm light the shadows of sorrow were dimmed.


	13. Like A Son

_As I have some new readers I did want to apologize for a long break in updates, and to explain this was inspired by the line Mithrandir asks Denethor in RotK "what would you have?" and by reading a _lot_ into Denethor's reply. This story will go all the way through, mainly Denethor, because I love him so. Needless to say I'm not a PJ fan. Also I'm not adept at formatting, I'm using MS Word - any suggestions are very welcome. _

What I Would Have 

Chapter 13: Like a Son

Denethor took full tally of his northern defenses, and finding them to be lax, he decided that increased fortifications would have to make up for a lack of men, and that Minas Tirith would have at least one weak border if Rohan should fail. While he was in field he was informed of the victory, and men rejoiced, but he continued with his duty, since he now saw it as necessary to guard the north.

He labored long at the tedious work, and few were interested or relished being assigned to such duties that he brought. The men longed for victories and glory, not grim preparations, though none would speak thus against him. He spent days riding along bleak and windswept hills, and he missed his wife and son more than he worried over Thorongil, but he knew he must do this labor that others neglected, especially since his father's preference for Mithrandir made him blind to any possible perils. Yet the work was dull and bleak, and the north wind wuthered mournfully through the hills, and he returned much wearied a month later to an empty house.

* * *

He then went to make report to the Steward, and was told by the chamber guard to wait, a thing that had never before happened. He stood outside the black wood doors in surprise and agitation, sealed off from whatever took place in the great hall, yet he heard no movement inside, and could not guess why he would be thus detained. He thought that perhaps his father kept secret counsel with Thorongil, and as he stood still as a stone before the doors his blood pounded in his ears at the thought that Thorongil now truly barred him from his own father's seat. At last the man who waited on his lord opened the doors, and he approached the chair of his father, who was alone. Ecthelion looked ancient and careworn, not victorious, and long afternoon shadows filled the hall. The stones themselves looked faint and old, and cheerless. The fire was dying, and the torches were not yet lit. The light made the lines on Ecthelion's face stand out, and turned his white hair a pale red. He had a letter in his hands, much folded and soft with rereading, and he lifted eyes to Denethor that were filled with sorrow and reproach.

"Hail Denethor, Captain of the Guard of Minas Tirith, and soon to be Steward of Gondor."

Denethor was startled by the address but managed, "Say not so father, it will be long before I sit in that chair."

"Yet you act as though you already do," replied Ecthelion, "and tell others so as well."

"Who has spoken against me father?" Denethor asked in anger.

Ecthelion smiled grimly, "My heart Denethor, for you have driven away those that I love."

"I do not understand to whom you refer, my lord." Denethor said, though his eyes were very angry.

"Thorongil returns not, and a great comfort and hope he was to me." Ecthelion said sadly, looking to the letter in his hands. Then he continued in a firmer voice, looking Denethor in the eye, "And an honor, to see the hope of such a future for Gondor. Now he writes to tell me we have parted forever, and I am grieved as though I lost a son, though I doubt this news will grieve you."

Denethor was silent for a little while, "I had not heard of this my father."

"That I know, you have been in the north as you desired, and now you will tell me of more fortifications to be moved and built." Ecthelion laughed as one fey. "I leave such things in your hands, for this kingdom moves beyond me now, and my interest in such things is dimmed. My lands feel like mud in my hands, take them now if you wish. Such concerns no longer hold me. I long for past glories I can no longer rise to, and the fireside is more compelling than the council chamber. I am an old man, and I took great pleasure in the company of men I loved."

And Denethor was grieved at this disastrous sorrow that racked his usually cheerful father, but he was stung as well by his father's suspicions, "I might remind you father, that Thorongil requested this commission, and you gave it to him."

Ecthelion sighed, "Yes and the responsibility of it lies with me. I well know, though I doubt you can fully, that if one rules all responsibility and cares must follow. When you rule you rule alone, and you will one day be the author of the land's sorrows along with its joys." He paused and laid aside the letter, and surveyed his son. To those who did not know him Denethor would have appeared impassive, but Ecthelion saw he was troubled. "I suppose you have also not heard that Imrahil is now Lord of Dol Amroth"

Denethor's head shot up in astonishment, "Indeed, father, I have not! No news of this brought to me."

Ecthelion shook his head, "No, no news, but had you asked you would have heard. Your mind is ever in figures and scrolls, and when you listen it is to intrigue rather than what is said directly."

"I listen with care to all things father that…"

"Save for what you should!" interrupted Ecthelion suddenly and with a fire that he had not used since he last rode to battle. "And how is it that your wife did not write to you of these tidings?"

Denethor was taken aback by his sudden anger, and the new thought that he had received no such news from his wife, that their silence had further implications than he had foreseen, "I take it my wife and child are in Dol Amroth."

"Yes, to mourn Adrahil – and I who authored his death must sit here as Steward, and spend the lives of all around me. Do you long for this fate Denethor?" Ecthelion asked in a strangled voice as he glanced at the remnants of the fire.

Then as swiftly as it had come the battle flame left his eyes, and he rested again his face in his hands and wept. He wept for his lost captain, and friend, and for his daughter-in-law, and his son. Denethor was much taken aback, for he had never seen the Steward so unsettled, and he moved to place a hand on his father's shoulder, for Ecthelion was hardy and that he should weep was grievous. But as he approached his father his eyes fell on the letter, and he thought of how often his father dismissed his counsel, yet this note had obviously been treasured and read many times, and his heart grew harder. Yet still he ventured to explain in a soft tone:

"I heard only that the battle was a great victory. I did not return sooner, for I was engaged in defending the north stretches and marking need for improvements, and I thought I would not be missed- for surly Thorongil would return here in triumph?"

Ecthelion lifted his head and sighed, "Yet he did not, and will not again for as long as I sit here, and you will not again behold him either, I deem."

"So now he has stirred the wrath of Harad and has departed while we are desperate for men. Do we then know of the whereabouts of this man who has thus authored in you so much grief father?" Denethor asked with venom in his words.

"Thorongil was reported as crossing the Anduin and heading east, and after that the people of Gondor will look for him no more." Ecthelion replied, turning his attention back to his son.

"And neither will I, and gladly too, I will not conceal that since you have made it clear that you already think that of me." Denethor replied resentfully, "And I shall miss the captain as a soldier- but not a counselor, for his counsels seemed to me ill." Ecthelion nodded slightly and a smile like winter crossed his face, then Denethor did feel a pull in his heart, for he had loved the Lord of Dol Amroth more than all other men, "Adrahil will be sorely missed, for he was ever worthy, and I too loved my father in law."

Ecthelion was silent for a moment as if waiting for his son to say more, and when he did not he replied, "Aye and he loved thee. Go now to his funeral feasts and pay respect. I am still steward, and I will be thy heart's champion if thy mind will not yield. Go to thy family, and live for once as a man and not a lord of stone." Then the wrath at his lost captain and friends pricked at Ecthelion and he said in great bitterness, "You bring misery to those that love you Denethor, thus, go."

And Denethor made no outward sign, though his heart burned, for he loved his father, yet Ecthelion had chosen even the absence of Thorongil over his own flesh. Denethor knew much of men, yet he did not know yet that sorrow often crafts men's tongues in ways they do not purpose; for he had great and stern control, and thus far had seldom lost it. If he had stopped to think he would have remembered that he had likewise acted in bitterness and pride towards his wife, and done so because he felt their love could sustain such an assault. But he did not as a rule dwell on personal concerns that did not affect policy. Ecthelion was quite right: that despite his complete devotion to Gondor Denethor was most apt to overlook himself and those closest to him, and because he always looked for hidden meanings he rarely saw that which was put forward plainly.

* * *

He returned to his empty quarters to pack fresh linens suitable for the occasion and to bathe. On his way to the bath he stepped on something that entered the flesh of his foot, biting him and causing him to curse. When he picked the object up he saw it was a toy of Boromir's, a small soldier. He had bent the little tin man almost in half, but he stood there for a while holding the tiny thing and turning it in his hands. He could barely remember his own set, except that he destroyed them once, and now he regretted not holding on to them, that he could have passed them to his son. He heard the maid emptying the hot water basin, and the thought recollected him, and he placed the little man carefully on a table before he went into the bathing room.

He sat for a while in the hot marble tub, he was a man of full years now, and he enjoyed letting the heat enter his bones, which after a month's hard riding ached in a way they had not in his youth. He knew his heart should be with Adrahil, and his wife, and grieved father, but curiously his mind only took in what was around him, and he felt little. He watched the steam from the water gather and spread across the stones and the days light begin to fade from the window. Then, following a strange impulse, he submerged his head and body entirely. As he lay beneath the water his mind first went to Adrahil, for likewise under many fathoms he now lay, and would always lie. Floating and formless, the water about him dulled all sounds and feelings save for what was in his own heart and mind. Then he felt the air beginning to burn in his lungs and he remembered the long ago fight in Umbar, the first one he had fought with Thorongil, when Imrahil was hardly more than a boy. He remembered then how his armor had weighed him down, and he had gone beneath the hull of a ship, and had thought he would die. The thought that he would leave the house of Mardil without an heir had roused him then, and the thought of the heir of Mardil now suddenly made him sit upright, causing a wave of water to rise out of the marble basin and splash across the stone floor. He rose from his bath, bothering only to wrap in a towel and ran to his chamber. There he began to ransack drawers, throwing clothes upon the floor. Then he found under some aged quilts, carefully wrapped in a sheepskin, the thing he sought. He unwrapped it and his thoughts flew back over thirty years...

* * *

_It had been his father's and his father's before him. It was a great horn, cunningly wrought. It was an heirloom that the eldest in their house had always born. _

"_For many years I have born this heirloom, but it is the horn for a soldier, and thus I will never again be." Ecthelion said gravely to Denethor, as he unbuckled the horn._

_As he spoke it struck Denethor that he said those lines with great sadness. Then Ecthelion, knowing too well his son's temperament added, "It is said that a man in peril who blows on it will be heard by his friends and kin, no matter the distance."_

_Denethor smiled coldly at this, for he cared not at all for such minstrel's tales. And he replied, "I thank you for the gift father, but I am more likely to give aid than receive it."_

_Ecthelion then winked at him and handed him the horn. Ecthelion was a large and hearty warrior, and for years the horn had sat comfortably on his belt, but Denethor found that it was too large and clunky on his own lithe frame. He had no use for horn calls that brought undue attention; he had his own little horn, a gift from his former captain, for when he needed to give orders. So he had never born the horn, and left it in his rooms for safekeeping._

* * *

The clucking of the maid brought Denethor from his memories, she was fussing over the puddle on the floor he knew, just as he knew that if she were aware he was still in chambers she would not have dared make a sound. He gazed down at the horn in his hands, it meant something else to him now, proof perhaps, that his father had once cherished him above all else. He had no desire now to begin wearing the thing, and he knew he would soon be beyond all soldiery himself, but his thoughts were with Boromir, who already displayed the frame and prowess of his grandsire.

He rode out in the evening from the city he had just come home to, in obedience to his father's wishes. But he bore with him the horn for young Boromir, packed into the saddlebags of his tired mount. He looked forward to seeing again his son, and making peace with his wife, and he rode to bid his last respects to Adrahil, who had likewise turned from him to Thorongil, despite his love.

* * *

He rode up to the bright tower of Dol Amroth in the morning, it was days since the rights of Adrahil, yet the city was still in morning, the pennants fluttered sadly at half mast, and the ships in the harbor bore dark bunting and flags. Yet Denethor smiled as he beheld the fair city, for here was ever for him the seat of great happiness, and though he mourned the passing of Adrahil, he knew the man had loved the sea, and could have picked no meeter end than to go down with his ship. Then Denethor reined in his horse, and in deference to his brother-in-law's new station he drew his mount along the cold river that ran along the city, and to its official land gate along the frigid Morthond.

Upon reaching the gate he sent the warden to announce his presence and receive the permission of the lord, Adrahil had dispensed with all such duties, but since the realm was now Imrahil's, he wished to make it clear that the new ruler had the blessing and respect of the ruling Steward. The gate warden made his reappearance and bade the Steward's son enter with fair words, but as he spoke Denethor's attention was drawn to a child playing down by the frigid currents of the river. His dark hair was spiky with his nurse's attempts to get it to lie down, and he shouted as he flung rocks into the swift current. Denethor would have known him anywhere, even with his dark clothes coated in river mud. Yet a harried nurse stood beside the boy, and Denethor was expected to call on Imrahil Prince of Dol Amroth, before he could speak to his son.

Imrahil, his fair face oddly grave, rose and greeted him courteously as he entered the well-remembered hall. Denethor paid last respects to Adrahil, and hailed the son, and then formalities were done, and Imrahil stepped forward and clasped his shoulder in soldier's greeting, "It is a long time brother, since you came to Belfalas, and I am sorrowful that it was this sad occasion that has brought you."

"A joyous one too, for now you are Lord." replied Denethor.

"I sought it not; I do not relish it now. " replied Imrahil with some of his boyhood frankness, but the reproach flashing in his eyes reminded Denethor that he addressed a man now, and one who was formidably trained in war and policy.

"I intended no disrespect to the fallen, for he was beloved," replied Denethor, and Imrahil's eyes softened.

"I suppose you will want to know of any changes I am making, and I welcome your council, but first you will doubtless want see to my sister."

Denethor preferred to discuss matters with Imrahil first, or to see his son, but he did not say such things. He took his leave and went in search of his wife. He found her in her old quarters, wiping the mud off of Boromir, who recognized Denethor at once and twisted out of her arms to go running to him. He collided with his father's leg and wrapped his arms around him with a shriek of delight. Laying a fond hand on the boy Denethor looked up to see a tender smile of Finduilas's face, and seeing her thus, all bitterness melted, and he motioned her over as well, and gathered her into his arms. After all Thorongil was gone, and the displeasure he had caused could be remedied.

* * *

Then he released her at last, and handed over the bundle he had brought from his saddlebags for Boromir. The boy laughed with delight at a present, but he had trouble holding on to it, and Denethor helped him unwrap it lest he should drop it.

"It is an heirloom of Mardil, that is handed to the eldest son," replied Denethor to her questioning look.

They both then looked at Boromir, who was looking up at his father with his eyes alight with joy. He then attempted to mouth the horn, making ungainly toots, and finding it impractical, took to brandishing it. Denethor took it back then, and he handed it over, but Boromir's eyes followed it with longing until Finduilas distracted him with a ball.

Finduilas then smiled tenderly at Denethor, "it will be years before he can be entrusted to care for that, let alone carry it."

Denethor smiled ruefully, "but it is his now, nevertheless."

Finduilas reached for the horn, and he handed it to her, then he ruffled Boromir's hair and examined the mud stains on his formal attire. The boy looked up at him and shouted as usual, "The river father, you should see the river!"

"And you should have a care about rivers, they are not toys."

"Please, father," Boromir pleaded, and Denethor gathered him in up into his arms.

"Come," he said "we will go down to the beach, you may play in the sand there."

The family then proceeded down the halls, Denethor relishing the infrequent delight of domestic peace, while Finduilas walked nervously beside him. She did not know that for him such carefree moments were cherished and rare, since she had little else to occupy her life with, and she marveled that he said naught to her of all that had passed between them- the strange and sudden silence, and the loss of Adrahil. They passed through the bright sunlit halls that let in the morning air and the fresh smell of the bay. From below the familiar sounds of the harbor and gulls, and the cheerful voices of the people in the city reached them. They walked out then along the balcony that led down a long path of wooden stairs into a stretch of white beach in front of the lord's house. Then Finduilas summoned her courage and spoke, "I am almost surprised to see you."

Denethor looked over at her quickly, "why so?"

"I did not know if duty would permit you to visit."

"You are not sorry to see me, surely?" He had meant it as a jest, but it brought up the painful memory of the past few weeks of isolation and she flushed and dropped her head and lapsed into silence.

They reached the steep steps that led to the water, and Denethor shifted Boromir in his arms so that he balanced the boy on his left, and offered his arm to his wife. She smiled at the gesture, and when they were arm and arm, with the warm breeze blowing, he stole another glance at her. She looked glad to be in the sun, and he marked that she was paler than she used to be, but her hair shone like gold and her eyes sparkled blue as the water. They had reached the beach now, and he released Boromir who ran off towards the waves and began to poke through the sand. They spent the day there at the beach, though they did not speak, for there was time to speak later, and Boromir built a great city from sand, and defended it against a few well placed crabs, much to the amusement of his father.


	14. Like Water

What I Would Have

_Putting a few touches on a whole bunch of chapters. I knew where the characters needed to go but getting them there took some thought. A couple months later we're back in the game. The minute I think I've got it all figured out someone new comes on the scene, now Saruman had to pop up, never liked the guy. I also realized I have about 1000 mistakes in my earlier chapters. Anyway, I'm trying a new format/ font let me know if its better or worse._

Ch14: Like Water

Finduilas sat in her old childhood rooms in the royal houses of Dol Amroth. These had great windows that overlooked the city and town, and she enjoyed sitting in the window boxes and spending hours looking down upon the people of the city she missed. Men and women passed by in bright clothes and children played in the streets. Most here went uncloaked, for the air was warm and their faces were tanned with the sun. She knew from where they walked the nature of their errands, and most she knew by sight and name. Earlier she had paraded Boromir through the city with pride, and the boy was asleep now, stuffed with far too many sweets and exhausted from walking the streets all morning and being, more or less, polite to the people of the city. As he slumbered in the next room she stared out over the terraces. Unlike Minas Tirith, the houses of Dol Amroth were tiled in bright red, and here there were many blooming trees, for most could survive the rare frosts. The city was always green and bright, with cheerful tiles and brightly colored walls. Here the sun shone brightly, yellow as honey and warm sand, on sweet Belfalas. By contrast stark Minas Tirith was ever a cold frost white, like a winter moon, and the mountains somber sable, as though even the stones knew their role as the center of the great battle. There were smaller matters here in Dol Amroth to mingle with the great, and the turrets stretched above balconies of gay flowers. Here there was silver and blue, and all the mingling of sweet and bitter that make one purposeful and glad of heart. She smiled wryly then to think of her childish discontent of only a few summers gone, how she had found this cheerful predictability to be dull, and how she had longed to go beyond the sleepy port, to be drawn to the center of the great events that moved the world.

She had seen the great events now, and was no less in awe of them, but she felt herself in poor measure, and surely others felt that way as well. She had sought with her marriage to improve herself and aid those about her. Now she felt herself foolish, for her husband had ceased to share knowledge with her, and her attempts to gain it garnered more disapproval than aught else. No longer did he offer her his wisdom and teaching, and no longer did she feel that she might become an asset to him. For she still clung to the great she saw in him, and to suggest him as flawed, as any other man, was tantamount to heresy in her eyes. Yet her own heart decried her, for she saw him proven wrong at times, and then she hated herself for the thought, and her heart wept for him: that he should have flaws and that she could not bring him about to see them. And the words of Thorongil came back to her, that she was his comfort, and she felt ashamed to have pestered him when he sought her for peace. She looked out again upon the town, and as she watched the wives hurry to market, and the husbands at their labor, she inwardly resolved to be a better wife. But how does one offer comfort to one who asks not for it? For he needed it, of that she was sure, and her heart swelled at the thought of how at times he would gaze upon her, or take her hand. But such things he did unbidden and in private, for he disliked to have others perceive his needs.

The opening of her chamber door broke her musings. The maidservant showed Imrahil in, and he bowed to her gravely, and for a moment looked exactly like his father. Then his features shifted into her brother's smile, and she smiled in return. The first few days of her return they had mourned their father together, but once his memory was laid to rest, and her brother solemnly took up his office, their joy at their reunion had burst forth like the sun from behind clouds. They relived the past, and enjoyed the ease and comfort of a kindred spirit, and rejoiced to see each in each other the living spirit of Adrahil. As the days passed Imrahil more often wore the smile he had retained since boyhood, and it graced his features again as he joined her in the seat. She saw a box in his hand, and realized he brought her some sweet candy made from boiled sugar. The brightly colored boxes were sold at the piers, and of course she had bought Boromir some earlier, ones that were shaped like little soldiers, his pick from among the candy ships, birds, and flowers also sold in their own bins. It was an old childhood indulgence and delight, and Boromir's enthusiasm for the cunningly made things had made her laugh and buy him far too many. And yet here was Imrahil with more.

"These are foolish things," she murmured, yet she reached for the box anyway, and opening it laughed, delighted to see he had bought her ones made into little gulls, the shape she had favored from childhood.

"It is good to hear you laugh my sister." He said handing over the box of confections.

She smiled a quiet smile and replied, "That is not fitting, I am in mourning." Yet she took a sugary gull and ate it, and in a fit of childish joy stuck out a sticky tongue at here brother.

"It is not fitting that you should spend your life in sorrow." He answered, quickly grabbing a handful of candies himself and throwing them into his mouth over her shrieked protest.

"I'm surprised you remembered my fondness for these," she eventually calmed and replied, turning the box in her hands.

"It was not so very long ago." Imrahil replied, watching her features become grave and ladylike once more, "does your husband know of your greedy obsession with these?"

"Don't you dare tell him," she implored and playfully slapped his arm

"And why not? Doesn't he bring you candies? What do you do with those?" Imrahil asked, his eyes still teasing. But as he spoke his memory went back to how his sister had always shared candy as a child, and how he had confiscated many treats from her simply by the asking. Finduilas meanwhile had settled back into her chair, Imrahil eased himself into the opposite seat, and regarded her, it was unlike her to sit idle, even in her youth she had always been studying or working on something, and the realization that she had been dreaming out the window struck him as an unwelcome change.

"Surely, Denethor has been here now for several days, I'm sure he has brought you many presents." Imrahil said, knowing that Denethor would no sooner think to bring his wife an idle treat than he would go on holiday berry picking, and that sudden image made him snort.

Finduilas noticed and narrowed her eyes at him, "Now you are teasing- lord you may be, but still a cruel brother."

"It is the job of a brother to be cruel to his sister, you inspired me to be more dutiful." He replied, glad to return to something to pick up her spirits. "Besides, it is my duty as brother to tease you into sense, sweet sister," and suddenly he pulled a curl as he had done as a boy, and she squealed as shrilly as she had as a child, surprising herself at the sound.

"Oh," Imrahil joked, "is that how the great ladies of Minas Tirith express themselves?" And as he spoke he reached for her box of sweets, "and since these are so unwelcome I shall take them back."

"Imrahil, you're impossible!" she laughed and hid the box behind her, then, as he made a grab for it, she sprang from her seat and ran behind the table. Imrahil turned and tried to speed around the other side, but his boots slipped on the carpet and he almost fell. He threw out his arms for balance, causing fresh giggles from Finduilas, who felt more girlish and light than she had in years. Motherhood and the cares of her wedded life were forgotten, and she pranced as merrily as she had when a small girl. She held the box out in a teasing fashion, and skipped away from him laughing. Imrahil had recovered his balance and now prepared to give chase again. The exercise brought brilliant roses to Finduilas' cheeks, and her eyes sparkled as she waited for his next attempt. Then Imrahil made one last lunge for her and she laughed again and threw open the door to the hall, only to collide with a sudden wall of blackness.

Then the blackness softened and moved, and she felt herself supported by the strong arms of her husband. Denethor looked at her amazed, and slightly concerned. Finduilas however, feared he would now find her foolish or improper, and she felt great shame in having him see her behave as a thoughtless child. She paled, and the light went out of the room. Denethor guided her in his arms back inside, and she searched his face for a sign of his mood, fearing his displeasure, for his opinion mattered more than the world to her.

Imrahil meanwhile, hair askance, had straightened automatically at the sight of Denethor, but when he watched his recently carefree and animated sister wilt in her husband's arms he felt a sorrow and wrath common mingle. He made a stiff bow to Denethor, and passed from the room without a word, lest in a foul mood he should say something amiss, for he had long ago resolved not to step between his sister and her choice of husband.

* * *

Denethor meanwhile had been drawn to his quarters by the sound of laughter, laughter from what sounded like a child, strong and carefree, unforced or restrained. He had found the sound enchanting and as he placed a hand on the door it was flung open, and there was his wife, a picture of wild merriment with her hair floating about her, her cheeks aflame and her eyes like two lit sapphires. Yet at the very sight of him the smile fled her face like a frightened bird, and the eyes melted to teary pools of worry. Denethor had been hoping his wife and son had been playing together, that he might join in the merriment, that they might again share such rare bliss as had been present in the first days of their marriage, but now he had only the abashed image of his wife, and her brother, slowly changing from the valiant youth to the sober young lord who bowed with stiff ceremony.

Then his father's words came back to him, that he was the cause of misery in those he loved. He kept his hold on his wife, yet she seemed to shrink away from him, as though he had reproached her, and Denethor felt himself grim and old, and fey company, and he observed in an honest and unforgiving light the ill affect his presence seemed wont to have on her.

Denethor then considered for the first time how empty her days were, and how frightfully inadequate company he must be to her. He had been stung at what he felt was her preference for Thorongil's counsel, but now that the man was gone it seemed churlish to hold the grudge against her. He recalled now that she had few friends in the city and that his long silence to her might have been unnecessary and cruel. For though he had never minded for social niceties before, he now saw great value in them, for he took for granted that the spark of wonder and merriment that seemed to compose his wife was unquenchable, and he now realized that he had done little over the years to reciprocate that warmth, and he reproached himself. He came to stand beside her, and he reached out and let a curl of her hair run through his fingers. She leaned her head back slightly, and he leaned and rested his cheek very briefly against hers.

"I am sorry that we do not talk anymore." She said quietly, their first real words since an argument over a month ago.

There was a brief silence, and then he replied, "So am I." He looked out over the water as he spoke, as if searching for something lost, instead of at her.

Finduilas rested a hand upon his chest, "Have I displeased you my lord? If you would only tell me what it was, then I would amend it."

Then Denethor took her hand and pressed it, and looking at her tenderly replied, "Yes, I believe you would." He paused for a moment, and then, looking in her eyes, answered truthfully as old, "I thought you too swayed by the councils of Thorongil, but that is beyond us now."

She looked startled by this last comment, "Why, say not that he has fallen as well?"

"No, lady, he has left is all," he said and carefully looking for how she would respond.

"That is strange," she replied, puzzled but not unduly vexed.

"It is feckless," Denethor said, "my father is distressed."

Finduilas ran a hand over his cheek to sooth him, and murmured, "But he was at odds with you, surely things will run smoother now?"

"I expect that to be the case" Denethor replied, he was much relieved that she did not dwell on Thorongil, for it said to him that whatever sway the other man held on her it would be quickly remedied. As she spoke she looked up at him in the old appealing way of hers, at once trusting and imploring, and, as of old, his heart to her softened.

Denethor weighed then two chances in his thoughts: he felt a pain in his heart that he would lose her, and a thought that perhaps he should. She was weary, so he caressed her hand and spoke, "I have failed to make you happy, and that is to my shame. Perhaps you should stay here longer, and regain your strength."

There was a long moment then between them, and he heard the waves crashing below. Finduilas turned her head away to the bright sun, but she soon turned back and said with a sly smile, "And who would have tea with the lady of Ethring and the sister of the Lord of Lamedon for you?"

Denethor smiled, recalling the two worthy ladies, neither of whom made conversation beyond the weather, and both reminded him more of portraits of frowning and grim relations rather than actual people. At times he could see the dust settle on them. They lived in a museum of proper manners and customs, and while he approved of such things, and was often grim himself, he found that women should live thus, who saw neither danger nor responsibility, to be ridiculous. He had on rare encounters spent tedious hours with them and their husbands over the course of his life, but he realized now that he seldom thought of any of these people at all when he did not need to. He had not considered that when she was not by his side his wife spent all of her time thus employed, and this too was disturbing.

The thought distracted him and he asked her curiously, "Do your thoughts often dwell on Gondor's worthies?"

"That is a strange question," she replied laughingly.

"I never think of them," he explained.

"That I know - you choose not to notice those about you unless you need something from them, or they are troubling you." Finduilas replied, but she was still smiling and teasing, even though she spoke her heart. There was no reproach in this statement as it might have come from another, but it seemed to him to be near whatever trouble lay between them.

Denethor caught her glance, "it is not that way between us, you frequently occupy my thoughts, you and Boromir, even when you should not."

"And when should we not?" she asked with a strange tension in her voice and a trembling heart.

"When it would imperil the country the city or my command, or the policies that sustain these," he replied, and as he spoke Denethor changed from the tender man he could be into the captain and lord he usually was with others. And she disappointedly saw she was ever unable now to draw out the tenderness, and that he was becoming more the grim lord he seemed to others.

"I have always admired that you have given your life so totally to Gondor. But I never truly knew what it meant."

"You no longer find it admirable?" he answered with faint displeasure.

"I find it more so," she tried again, "and yet it terrifies me. I had thought myself to be your helpmate, to walk beside you down the path of life- and now I find my heart fails me at the sight of that road."

He looked into her eyes, "I would never allow you to come to harm."

And Finduilas looked down.

"Why should that cause you displeasure?" Denethor asked with the now familiar frustration of their marriage creeping through his breast.

And she looked up with eyes like watery violets, "Because you would allow yourself to come to harm first, because there are many ill chances in life and I love thee. And because…"

"Speak your mind, be not silent," Denethor said, and he bent his will upon her for he wished to settle the matter between them.

And she wept and her tears fell on the stone floor, "because you would not allow it."

And Denethor held her for a while, and she pretended to be comforted and ceased her weeping. He had much to think on, and it seemed to him now that having a family was more of a task than running a country, but at length he remembered that duty would not give him the luxury of time for both, and he left to work on requisition orders for the north, and comfort himself fthat his land was secure, even if his family was in shambles.

* * *

Imrahil found Finduilas later silent and weeping. His heart was wrung, but he also knew now what Denethor faced, for suddenly all the burdens of his house, city, and lands were on his shoulders alone, and he scarecely had time for the ordering of his own ships. He saw now how very much Adrahil had gained from the presence of Denethor, who took to running a country the way other men consume a feast, and seemed to get the same amount of sustanence as well. He also regretted his earlier words to his sister, for he felt that they had proved true, that she was ill matched to her husband, and if he could not fix this he could help her at the very least.

She did not bother to wipe her cheeks when she saw him approach, for he had always known her heart, but he drew her into his arms for a while and then struck a light tone as was his way.

"Sister I think you still have not found your power as a woman, you can sway men more than you realize. He does not mean to make you weep, I know. We must find a way to make you happy together."

"My life is with him, and when we are together I am not sorrowful." She replied somewhat tiredly, as though the point were old and often explained, or as if she no longer believed what she said

"Nor are you happy," he said. And to that she made no reply. They stood for a long time waching the waters sparkle in the sun and listening to the waves. It brought something to the mind of Imrahil, and he sought to bring her out of her fey mood.

"Did father ever tell you what he had to say about water?"

"No, but I'm sure he said many things." Finduilas replied, slightly teasing.

"It was when I first went to be an esquire, when you were still young. I would no longer be under his control or protection, and he stood where we are now, and he told me this: He said that water is the most powerful element because it moves. If it cannot pass through rock it goes around. He said I should remember that. He said that drips of water, given long enough, wear away stone, and that I should persist in the same small way. And he said that when men stood in my way that were stronger than I, should go around them, because that's what water does."

Finduilas made no reply, but he saw her brow wrinkle in thought and a light begin to kindle in her eyes.

"I find myself thinking of that often," Imrahil continued in the silence, "for I am often now in the same way I was as a boy. I know very little of what I need to know, and the man whose counsel I would ask is beyond my recall." Then he gestured at the city spread out along the water, with its shops and ports, "And this city is in itself a task for many men. I don't know where father found the time to do all of this, and the outlying estates as well."

"He didn't," Finduilas replied, "I helped him"

Then an idea came suddenly to Imrahil, and he saw how he might circumvent the silence that existed between his sister and her husband. "I would have some help on drawing up the new farm boundaries beyond the gates, where we should expand cottages and what fields need not be fallow. I know father showed you much of this."

Finduilas turned towards him gravely, but the sorrow was all but vanished from her face, "Yes and now you need me for your interest in fields stops with whether you can ride your knights across them."

"I also have a navy to care for, you know." Imrahil retorted.

"I do know, and I shall do as you ask."

Then Imrahil led the way back into the great hall and he summoned his servants. His papers were brought in and spread across the table. Then watched Finduilas pore over the maps and begin to make notes in a practiced and confident manner, and he started to devise a plan for his sister. Even as she scratched numbers and dates onto a paper her saw how to bring her husband's attention back to her happiness, and while she rummaged through the bright maps he was planning on how to open her world beyond the walls of the city.

* * *

The family dined together, and as the evening stretched out by the pleasant hearth, Imrahil insisted that his sister bring forward the plans she had made for improving some pastures and farms around Dol Amroth. At first Finduilas was dismayed and protested that they were private, but she knew her brother too well to believe he would let the matter be, and she knew her husband would likewise not let any doing of hers go unnoticed. So she slid Boromir from her lap and went to get the work her brother had requested. Denethor played with Boromir until her return, and then Finduilas handed him a bunch of papers tied with a string and reclaimed her son.

"She took a great liking to such works as a girl, you know" Imrahil pointed out to Denethor.

Denethor observed with a critical eye, "They seem adequate."

"You don't think them well," Finduilas murmured, feeling crushed.

"I do, they are very sensible, and involve little resources save redirection of labor." He shifted the papers thoughtfully in his hand. "With increased attacks, we take men from the country for long periods of time, and often as not there are none to make improvements. Also, my dear, men will have their own will in their homes, especially after a term of service. I fear they will not look kindly on suggestion."

"Meaning, dear sister, that most men are not as acquainted with your wrathful nature as your brother," Imrahil quipped.

Denethor, seeing the mirth that lurked in the corner of Imrahil's mouth, allowed himself to smile, but there was no teasing light in his eyes as his gaze met Finduilas'.

"Then we must prevail on them, they cannot be insensible to good for themselves," she rejoined, encouraged by his kindly look.

Denethor placed the papers beyond the reach of Boromir and placed the boy on his knee. It was exactly the sort of work he approved of, for it had none of Thorongil's martial influence. His thoughts flew to valleys and neglected lands to the west of Gondor, places where lands lay in similar need of direction, yet Gondor had no men to spare. It struck him that such lands would be ideal for her labor, and that it would benefit her to be so happily occupied. He bounced Boromir absently for a minute and then said, "If this would please you, my wife, then we shall view some areas near to Minas Tirith, and you shall have leave to work at them, and yet be prepared for difficulty, for we ask much of our people, and most are slow to change, or will challenge your authority."

Finduilas smiled gently, "I intend to persuade and suggest, not demand change, so there can be no challenge."

"You see what it is to have as a sister, sir," Imrahil joked, "she is as changeable as water, as slippery as an eel – she will beguile and insist and out of courtesy leave men speechless."

"It must be a feature of the family then, for the two of you like to make such plans in your idle hours I see, I have not been caught so off-guard for a long time."

And Imrahil sensed a serious note entering the conversation, and he wondered what Denethor hinted at, but Finduilas, alarmed at the coldness entering her husband's manner quickly broke in.

"But surely there is no cause to reject a good plan, no matter whom may order it, or how it is presented?"

"No, that should be a poor reason, I see this pleases you and it will aid all of Gondor, even if the change is slight." Denethor said. Yet he sighed, for the opportunity to see if Imrahil had sided with Thorongil on the expedition to Umbar had passed. His wife and her brother would always be close, and in truth as time passed the matter grew less urgent. He knew in his heart he would not see Thorongil in Minas Tirith again, yet he still felt a dull sadness at the name, like a whisper of future trouble.


	15. An Uneasy Peace

What I Would Have

_My formatting changes are to no avail, it's very annoying. I'd like to increase the font and spacing. Feedback welcome, reviews beloved, thanks for people's patience. Faramir fans will get their boy very soon._

Chapter 15 An Uneasy Peace

The leaves had begun to put forward their autumn radiance, and beside Denethor his wife bloomed in good health. She was mounted on a white palfrey flecked with gray named Mearas. He was as good and quiet a horse as any lady could wish, specially obtained for her by Denethor from the land of Rohan and presented as a gift for her new endeavors. From his back she gazed with wonder at the beauty of the land, so different and varied from the sea, yet wonderful and strange to her. Denethor enjoyed seeing her wonder, and life to both felt very much like it had at the beginning of their marriage, when they shared the same excitement and hopes.

They followed a steep mountain trail up into the sunlight, and the lands dropped away about them. Then they felt as if they were dwelling within the clouds, and the land was obscured beneath them and the sun shown brightly. As they rode, the pass became more and more narrow, and the horses picked their way carefully single file. A cold fog blew about them, and Denethor observed his wife folded her cloak tightly about her. Her maid, riding close behind her had exclaimed several times as to the height of the pass, but Finduilas did not seem to mind. The morning wore on in cold greyness and the air grew thinner, until suddenly the clouds lifted, and they were in bright sun above the clouds themselves. The horses, now viewing the way with confidence sprang ahead and soon they were on the path that ran along the summit.

To make the scenery last they paused along the rode, halfway to the valley town they were to inspect, and a full half day from the house of Hirluin that they were to reach ere nightfall. Denethor did not grudge the time however, for his heart seemed to swell to bursting in his chest, and Finduilas likewise seemed to be in a rapture. They stood close to the edge of the pass, Finduilas a little before, and Denethor with a careful arm about her, for she was near to the edge of the cliff. So much so that were he not so exuberant he would have ordered her back. Finduilas smiled brilliantly, her golden hair dazzling in the sun, and Denethor himself felt his face beaming. She turned to him with a glow about her cheeks that he had not seen since their wedding.

"The sun up here is unfettered, and the clouds of mists, as though we are above all the cares of the world, or perhaps simply removed, and here all things are possible." She reached a hand over the drop, "I have only to reach out my hand to touch the heavens," she declared, and laughed.

Denethor cleared his throat, suddenly awkward, "The watch towers of Gondor are along these roads, and they serve us well in the mountains…" Denethor began, for she had always been willing to hear of his deeds, and he had strengthened the old roads, more for lookout purposes than use, for surely there was none to succor Gondor save Rohan, but the tale died on his lips. The bright morning sun seemed to dry all cares like pools of dark water, he could at that moment feel nothing but gladness as well. Indeed, up here near the eagles, he felt the darkness was conquerable, and he need only to set the fires blazing to bring nations to the battle with Mordor.

Finduilas meanwhile had stepped back closer into his arms, and he happily gathered her to him and away from the ledge, where they were far too exposed and perilously close to the drop.

"Had I known how much you liked the mountains I would have taken you here sooner," he murmured into her hair.

She turned towards him with a small laugh, "Oh no, it is the height, the clouds that I love, it makes the land appear as endless and unspoilt as the sea." Finduilas' smile faded a little as she cast her gaze to the black rock faces about them, "the mountains are too much like towers: as still as death, as stern as fate."

And her words brought a great chill to Denethor, but in his arms her eyes were aglow, and he was anything but stern and grim to see her thus. They continued in great happiness throughout the day, and came at last to the town she had determined to see. It was laid back in a peaceful valley, nourished by the great peaks around it, and shielded from the world. This was a town of few trade caravans and peopled with rustic folk, and even arrayed as they were the people all stood and gaped, forgetting even to bow in their wonder.

* * *

Finduilas rode slowly about the town while Denethor watched like a grim hawk in the background, lest a foe should appear. In a town that appeared to have slept since the time of the kings it appeared rather unlikely, but they were still a half day's hard travel from Hirluin's lands and he was taking no chances.

Eventually Finduilas, after taking a sober yet enthusiastic stock of the town, returned to his side, accompanied by a twittering Miriel, who fully enjoyed the stir they had caused.

"Well?" Denethor asked.

"The town is building mud around the river from the farms. It will eventually be unable to use it as a means of travel or water. They must take more care of it during the dry months, and tax the streams that feed it less. Meanwhile, the snows will melt and take more of the farms each year, which is apparent even from here by the way the land is sloping," she said, gesturing to the far hillside, "and the exposed earth on the north side. The people must build reinforced dikes, and more ditches to spread the water," she looked about her at the town center, "and a well for that matter in such farms as that one," she said with a gesture of her hand, "to ease the strain on the river when it runs low, rather than wash it entirely over the fields."

Denethor smiled indulgently at her amused that the ideas that poured from her lips, and pleased that they were sound. For once his smiles aroused a sort of wrath in her and she tossed her hair and proclaimed, "I did learn from my father, and I am not a fool. I know the ways of waters at least."

Denethor, lost in her sudden beauty, in a fire he had never seen finally drew his attention to her words and replied, "I had not thought you were, and you are right of course, if it will suit you I will let you speak with the people yourself while I take a man to view their walls."

Bowing thus he departed, and though he threw a perfunctory glance at the wooden stockade he knew it to be far too little to do more than keep out beasts at night. The man showing him the walls was quite literally shaking, caught between fear and awe, but Denethor kept his eyes on his lovely young wife, holding his distance until he saw a farmer she spoke with shake his head at her. Then he wheeled his mount and cantered to her side.

"Owrgth then," the man exclaimed in a barely understandable accent that was more Dunland than Westron, "we mundt to use the river no more, what substitute then?"

"Why then the well would be serviceable," Finduilas replied.

"A well!" The man exclaimed, "and who then will be digging it, with all my sons in the service of age, and the eldest here not yet of nine summers?"

Finduilas smiled patiently, and she hoped winningly, at the man, "Your neighbors should provide aid, as good neighbors do."

"Be ah askin my neighbors! king's mercy! Where would my neighbors be? Have not their lads gone to the soldiery as well? What would you have me do?"

But at his tone and incredulity Finduilas had paled. She had thought to find at last something to do in the land, but like her vision of battle and many other things her thought of the common people were limited to bows and the indulgences of her childhood memories riding at her father's side. She had not reckoned that the farther they were from Minas Tirith the shorter her stature became. Denethor, on the other hand, had lived much of his life either on the borders or on the other side of them. His face now was black as a storm cloud at the dimming of Finduilas' features by an unwashed clod, yet as was his way, he became very distant and cold. His eyes grew cold and yet blazing, like tempered steel. In the voice that compelled young men to clash sword with orcs for fear of him, he asked, "what is the matter?"

The farmer gaped and swallowed, "Surely if t'will please the lady I would 'na to hesitate, but I'll not be beholden to the folks about me, and they as leef have their own work t' mind…"

Finduilas turned to her husband in confusion, as he was a little behind her she could not view his face otherwise, yet he smiled upon her as she glanced back and threw another sharp look at the man over her head. The farmer swallowed and compelled by countenance of the wrathful lord walked swiftly towards the nearest house. Miriel clucked and fussed over than man's manner to her lady, but Finduilas had regained her spirits, and she gave Denethor an almost naughty look of amusement at the change in the proceedings.

* * *

Later that evening, in the house of Hirluin the fair, they dined and made merry, and even Denethor felt glad to join in the conversation and jokes, and Finduilas even coaxed him into the dances after. Then she moved as she had not since she was a girl, happy and carefree and he allowed himself to forget for a while, and danced beside her, relishing the closeness they had so recently regained. At the end of the evening, feeling carefree with pleasure and wine, he caught her in his arms, and spun her high in the air, to the laughter of the others in the hall, and for one moment all fell away and about him was but brightness and good.

* * *

The rides were good for her, the slight exertion of traveling made no toll, and her spirits seemed much improved from congenial visits, and even ones in which a farmer was less than friendly made her spirit rise. She cajoled and persuaded, and the land improved, ever so slightly, cottages were banked for the winter, wells were deepened, and town markets flourished. The improvements were small, often times barely noticeable, but there nonetheless. Denethor marked what change there was, and saw it to be good, and more importantly the change in his wife. Her spirits and thoughts were cheerfully occupied, and the people though at times crude were goodly, and he seldom needed to intervene on her behalf. He was free with his policies of war and larger things, but he knew the might of each man mattered, and if the small outlying towns and neglected estates could be persuaded to blossom more it was a gain, albeit a small one.

Finduilas was happily working for Gondor, and the influence Denethor exerted on her behalf worked well for him, for people now saw him as a kindly lord, one that cared for the prosperity of his men, and though he had labored long for that, he saw that men must needs see only what was in front of their eyes, a new wall or well all could understand, his work on tariffs and allotments was not only overlooked but too often misperceived as miserly or somehow removed from their world. If he took bushels of grain from a man to feed the swords that kept his farm from burning it were well for the farmer, yet few men reasoned that far, they saw only less for their families, and sons that came not home from far lands, and in exchange only a hard man in mail, espied from the distance when they should haul a sad cart into city for a feast day. His fair and blooming wife gave people what they wished to see, and he marked it weighed well against the fights in foreign lands.

Denethor at times found himself accompanying Finduilas to speak with the women of an area, while to his amusement he was regulated to the backroom with the men. Yet those men had sons, and frequently he used that now as an arguing point, and the desire for expansion into old territories and assault on future enemies had paled in people's minds. Against the shadow of Thorongil and the quickly dimming memory of past glories Denethor toasted the realities of comfortable hearth and home, defended by the steward and promoted by his lady. And the lords and ladies and lesser people harkened, and were glad, and it seemed they lived in a brief time of peace. A ghostly vision, a false peace, but the one who best knew it to be an illusion was Denethor himself and he spoke naught of it. Finduilas meanwhile waxed triumphant, and her worship of Denethor was renewed, for many now praised him to her, and he was often able to accompany her and offer guidance in how to solve minor problems. She too felt a growing sense of pride an accomplishment, and fit better into the role of Lady of Gondor. She took a stronger and loftier tone with those about her, and though her maids might giggle, they too marked the maturity of their young mistress. She had confidence now in her works. Of course beyond her kind counsel and pretty persuasion was the grim presence of her husband, and when those she counseled might gainsay her, his face was swift to darken into wrath. She seldom noticed however, and it seemed rather to her that the country side was peopled with the kind and thoughtful, and that even the most rustic of the inhabitants were charmingly open to counsel and suggestion.

* * *

Yet the borders were less stable with each passing year, and sometimes Denethor accompanied her farther ridings simply as a matter of caution. She did most of her works in small hamlets that knew only a Master of the Forest to guard hunting rights and maintain land divisions; or were governed by some several knights, distant memories of the kinstrife that stripped areas of their long gone lords. In these lands, haunted still by those bitter woes of past times, there were those from outside Gondor, and even those of slight purpose and birth who had sunken low in dark times, and these would waylay travelers. To these ills were added the swarms of dark men from the south, and Dunlendings from the north whose numbers ever grew. These men pressed now unfought on Gondor's borders. Since they had ceased to push those borders back, these same men now pressed against them, and the battles instead were brought to the very threshold of Anorien and Ithilien and into the less peopled valleys. Denethor feared that any demanded curtailing of Finduilas' activities would once again bring back her past melancholy, but in truth as the years passed he viewed her journeys with foreboding, and if they were not such an obvious pleasure would have long ago forbidden them.

Finduilas though was pleased to have him near and safe, and since their disastrous argument over Gondor's foreign policy she had followed the advice of her brother and occupied herself with other activities. The coldness had receded, and Denethor again was warm and attentive to her, yet at time she saw him looking at her before an outing as if he would speak, and then change his mind. And she knew that there was more trouble within the land, yet his manner forebode the talking of it. He spoke of her works only and praised them, both in company and in private, but as far from the shadow as she might bring him; nevertheless, he continued his grim preparations. Often when they had returned merry from an excursion he would later rise late in the night, and leave her, and either ride out to visit the border areas, or stay up until morning in the study. Yet with the rising of the sun he would return, and his features would grow relaxed and merry when he entered their house. Though she was able now to often coax warmth into his features, it still seemed that when he was not with her that he was becoming ever more grim, even as the land was, yet about these things they were both silent, as though they feared to lose the uneasy peace they had.

Instead of seeking to drive away the shadows upon him entirely, she strove now to enter where shadows were not, she gave him hours of happiness to offset the hours he spent in council or alone, and it seemed to her that that way she could continue to bring balance. Boromir still remained a constant and sure source of joy, indeed she felt that if small children did not need their mothers she would hardly see him at all, yet part of her feared to rely on Boromir alone to coax Denethor's ill humor, for she knew that as a man her son would strive with the shadow as well, and she was inwardly resolved that she should find a future for him other than that of his father, and that the braveness and courage should not be bought by a lifetime of darkness.


	16. On the Roadside

What I Would Have

Ch 16 On the Roadside

The little company quickly passed over the blooming mountain paths. Finduilas enjoyed the physical activity of riding, but she liked to be able to think while doing so; Denethor, knowing her fondness for getting lost in reflection, kept a careful eye on her to make sure she was safe. Boromir rode in front of his mother, and she was able now to give the soft leather reins into his young hands, and guide him on the horse. Denethor accompanied them, for she was visiting a land near the hills of Gilraen Vale, and when they rode together they took a lighter guard as was his want. Only a few knights rode with them through the sunny fields and over the hills. Denethor rode his old charger, Tulkas, though retired from battle the stallion showed some fine spirit and enjoyed the outings. Finduilas noted that Denethor also enjoyed the outings, he was constantly taking stock of the land, and making note of preparation. They were returning the quick way over the high passes of Lossarnach, when Denethor sharply reined in his mount. His knights drew close around Finduilas and Boromir and she, puzzled at the turn of events, looked to her husband.

There was a long silence, then a robin began to hop across the path, and the birds took up their song again. The horses stamped, chafed at their bits, and swished their tails for deer files. The sun shone brightly and the day was lovely as ever. Still no man moved, hardly breathed, and Finduilas likewise stayed still and hushed Boromir. A squirrel darted across the path in front of them and scolded, then Finduilas realized that the squirrel was scolding something farther down the path. At that moment the brush began to move and something fell heavily to the ground nearby. Then the knight beside her, Elendur, cried aloud in warning, and she saw the flash of steel and suddenly the squirrel fled past under the very legs of the Mearas. He reared and she heard cries about her. She saw there were men, many men on either side of the path, and they grabbed for her bridle and drew bright swords. Then the neck of Mearas rose up in front of her, and she saw only the dark little head of Boromir, and blue sky. In her mind only now was Boromir, and her arms folded about him, pressing his head to her breast, then she felt the horse give and she fell hard upon the ground with Boromir on top of her. For a moment her wits left her, but the cries around her roused her thoughts, and the white hooves descended mere inches from her face, and her maternal feelings blotted away all fear and pain. She gathered Boromir to her and rose, hobbling a slight way down the path and away from her horse and the chaos.

Clearly now she saw that Denethor, still mounted, was fending off three men. They bore swords but no armor or devices, only crude leather clothes. Nearby the other knights were fighting men likewise provided and clad, but Elendur lay upon the ground, and she saw there was an arrow deep in his chest that had entered under his arm. As she watched another knight received a wound to his leg, that glancing off his hauberk entered into his horse's side, and his horse screamed horribly and began to pitch. The brigands sent up a yell at the sound, but it had barely left their throats when Denethor brought his sword in a mighty blow, cracking the sword of one of his opponents. He swung around to stop the other and pushed his horse to block the third. The first man attacked with the shards, and Denethor slid back in the saddle to allow the man to go by, then under his command the horse rose, and he with full force chopped the man all but in two. At the sight of the spray of blood from the severed man Finduilas shut her eyes. She heard Denethor shout a command and opened her eyes to see the three remaining knights of their escort wheel their mounts and urge them to scale the bank. At that moment an arrow buried itself in the ground in front of her, and she realized they were being fired upon from up the embankment.

Finduilas was gazing at the embankment when a cloaked man appeared by the side of the road near her, she saw he carried a hatchet and he paused uncertainly now looking upon her and Boromir. She felt frozen, unable to move, yet she brought her arms up in front of her, thinking to stop the blow, that she might intercede between the weapon and her child. The man appeared to approach very slowly, and slowly she felt herself move. The sounds around her vanished and there was only the flash of a red shirt, the unkempt britches and hair, the glittering edge of the hatchet as it rose. Then she heard Denethor call her name, and the hatchet came down and crashed against steel. Her husband stood over her, tall and terrible with a light in his eyes she had never seen, and the blow threw the other man far back and away. He fell to the ground, unarmed, and now as he rose she saw that he was only a boy, perhaps of fifteen years. He scrambled to his feet as Denethor strode forward, and as he rose he turned to look at her again. Finduilas saw his lip tremble, and that he was afraid. Then in an abrupt movement Denethor drove him through. The boy looked down at the sword as it entered, but he never looked at the face of his opponent, instead he was looking all the while at Finduilas. He had large dark eyes, and as he looked into hers there was such a strange look to them, pleading and angry at the same time: not with the wrath of men, but a cheated look, like Boromir had when he knew he was being brought in to take a bath. Then the sword twisted, and his lips parted and eyes shut in a single wordless scream, for instead of sound a great spurt of blood came from his mouth and nose. He choked for a moment, and died, still upon his feet. Denethor swiftly withdrew his sword, and cast his eyes about. Finduilas now saw his eyes look into hers, he looked not like a man at all, but like a beast in fury, or a statue of madness itself- for though he seemed to verily burn with fire, his features hardly moved, and he possessed more than ever a great stillness and purpose of movement. When his eyes met hers they softened slightly and looked down upon Boromir who had set up a lusty wail. She shook her head slightly, as if to say they were unhurt, and she watched as he turned his attention to his men. They returned down the embankment now, one with his arm already bound and cradled. The others fanned out over the bodies, checking them and gathering the weapons. Denethor quickly ordered the younger clattering down the path on his mount towards Minas Tirith.

All the while Finduilas sat upon the earth, looking at the dead boy, and cradling Boromir, and finally upon the body of Elendur, the first to fall. She had ridden often with him as escort over the past year and now he lay within sight of his city, eyes staring unblinking up at the sky. She thought of his wife at home, not comely, but with a warm and ready smile, and of his little maid whom she had taught to weave ribbons, and had purposed to take on as a lady's maid in a few years. Denethor, following her gaze, frowned, approached the man and threw his cloak over his face. Then he quickly crossed over to the wounded horse and then there was silence. He then approached Finduilas and lifted Boromir from her arms, a cursory glance told him the boy was unhurt, indeed in his father's arms he had ceased wailing and now had begun to smile again. Then Denethor reached a hand to help her up and as she made to rise Finduilas felt a great and sharp pain fill her, and her thoughts fled to blackness

* * *

Denethor had seen the signs of an ambush, but it had come quickly, it was well planned, too well planned for the Dunlending brigands, though later he ascertained that they had found all of the men present. They had been equipped in the usual fashion, but it was unlike them to so willingly attack an armed escort. He had seen the men jump down upon the path, trying to land on the horses, and his first though had been for his wife and son, yet good Mearas had risen on his hocks, and he saw no man for the moment would be able to reach the precious passengers astride. Then the men had been in the path, and he knew he must keep them at all costs from his wife and son. He heard his esquire blow for aid with his call, and it seemed strange to hear it from the horn of another. Yet even before the sound fled echoing over the hills, the men were upon them, wild and desperate, shouting with the lust of murderous greed. He had fought then with a fear and desperation he had never before known, and his enemies and been slaughtered before him, yet the calm in battle he had always before known was gone. He could barely see the men he slew, for a film of blood covered his eyes. He did not fight as he normally did with efficiency and reserve; every blow was powered by the panic surrounding his heart. For when he jumped from his mount to the bank to slay the archer nearest him, the man had tried to get a shot off, not at him but at his family, and he had followed the path of the arrow to see a brigand running towards them. Then Denethor had crossed the distance as though he had wings, yet it seemed slow, too slow, and for a long moment he thought he wouldn't be fast enough. Then steel met steel, and he ran the man through. Finally, the pounding of his heart died down. Finduilas, her face deathly pale, grasped Boromir, and they seemed unharmed. He had lost a good man, but they had faced many. Still, he knew though it was his own carelessness that had lost him a man, his indulgence to his wife's whims had left all of them vulnerable. Her mouth was slightly agape and for a moment he thought she shrieked, but he realized the sound was the agony of the horse behind him, and he quickly dispatched it. Then he had taken Boromir and calmed him, yet Finduilas had not recovered and seemed all the more pale, and when he tried to get her to rise she looked once at him in confusion and pain, and he caught her as she fainted. Then the panic seemed to rise in him again, and at the same time a great cold peace washed over him as thought he was watching some dark fate he had long foreseen.

Denethor rode in silence behind the men bearing his wife. Her hip had been injured in the fall, and though she was now unconscious he knew she would soon wake to great pain, the attendants carried her swiftly but carefully over the field to Minas Tirith, and it seemed the hateful road stretched for miles, and the city had never seemed father away to Denethor. Ecthelion had sent many men, and though Denethor knew there was no reason, he had not the heart to order them. He left the care of the search to another man, and instead followed his wife back to Minas Tirith. It was late afternoon when they approached, and the city was red with the setting sun, as though awash in blood. In front of him in the saddle Boromir was subdued from the events of the day, he knew something was not right with his mother, and occasionally he fretted, but the day's carnage was quickly fading from him and he cast back his head against the bloody mail to look up at Denethor, then Denethor smiled tightly for his son's sake and patted his head. At last they entered the city, and Finduilas was born swiftly to the healers.

* * *

Finduilas opened her eyes in confusion, where there had been hard earth there were now cool white sheets, and the blue sky had been replaced by dark wood, and about her fluttered maids rather than warriors. Then she felt a great wave of pain bear her up and she awoke to full wakefulness, she was back in Minas Tirith she realized, and she must have been injured in the fall.

"Boromir!" she exclaimed almost without thinking.

"Hush my lady, he was unhurt." One of the women responded, "lie still now, whilst we fetch the healer."

Then the middle aged man entered, she watched him move his hands uncertainly and though he spoke quietly to her, assuring her that she would soon mend, she listened little to his words, for his manner showed him to be worried, and she saw from his flickering eyes that he was not telling her the whole truth.

Then a sable shape entered the doorway, and the others disappeared, and she felt her hand clasped and there was Denethor. His eyes were warm and soft as he leaned over her, and he cupped her cheek in his hand. He had no words for her, but at the sight of so much warmth and tenderness in his face she felt happy and she soon drifted off again to rest.

* * *

Over the following months Finduilas started to recover, but she could no longer abide the sights of battle. She was haunted by terrible dreams at night, and she frequently had one in which she once again saw her husband kill the boy who had threatened her, and before her eyes he became Boromir as he fell. The city was aflutter about her health, but she couldn't help but fancy there was a malicious overtone to the questions of the goodwives that approached her maids. Gone now were her plans for improvement of Gondor. It was only with bitter pain that she could walk the length of her room. And she dreaded the world outside of it, the gossips nursing the sting of absent husbands, fathers, and sons. As her world grew smaller she spent time with Miriel, and they talked for long hours of nothing. All was at calm and peace about her, yet she couldn't abide the sight of the handsome young knight who courted her maid. She found herself at times wondering how he would die: shot by arrow, or run through? And then she feared she was being driven mad. She felt she often needed to have Boromir, but the maids had taken him away to be better looked after, and it was Ecthelion who played with him now.

Denethor had all but disappeared, save often in the early morning or very late at night a dark shape would enter her room, and a cool hand would be placed at her cheek, and she would pretend to sleep, for she dreaded to break the peace between them, yet she heard from whispers that he rode to many skirmishes along the borders, yet it seemed to do naught but the stir the wrath of the enemy, for ever more foes appeared. This above all grieved her; she foresaw the peril of him thrusting himself, as one man alone, between the shadow of the east and the realms of the west. Yet she had failed to pull him from that shadow, and instead it seemed he now carried it inside him, and every passing day he drew further away from her, and she had pushed him thus with her love. Then all her deeds and purposes seemed to have gone astray and she wept alone in the darkness.

* * *

Finduilas began to move slowly about the steward's quarters, but her progress seemed too terribly slow. She longed to show that she was well again, most of all to her husband, but Denethor came not to her except when she was supposedly asleep. She tried to play with her son, yet Boromir could no longer play but the gentlest games, and the nursemaids kept taking him away from her. She longed to fly from the care of the city, to take her family away from the dread shadow, yet the shadow kept her confined to the city now, for Denethor forbade her to leave it. And her own weak body would not allow her to go to her brother, even though her heart longed more and more for the home of her childhood.

Denethor meanwhile had grown morose and ill tempered. He could find nothing for her to do, and without her previous diversions she seemed once again to ail. His initial wrath to secure the borders was spent, and he fell once more to brooding and planning. Doubt ever clawed at him. The attack on the road seemed too sudden, too swift for mere chance. Could there be enemies brewing in the gap of Rohan? And what then of Saruman? He fought endlessly against darkness, yet it had found him anyway, even at the threshold of his home, and he had not been able to stop it.

* * *

It was a long time before Finduilas was mended, and many months before that Denethor had grown bitter and irritable, for a man misses the comfort of his wife. But he was all tenderness to her, and she accepted his attentions gravely and affectionately. He now deemed her travels too risky to maintain, and he dreaded telling her, lest it reopen old wounds between them. Finally though the day came when her health should no longer detain her from traveling out on her previous duties. When he told her that she was no longer to undertake such travels, that it was too dangerous, he expected an outburst. Finduilas, however, made no sign or protest, and this quiet acceptance worried Denethor.

Finduilas was content now to look no farther than the city walls. She longed to fly from Minas Tirith, but found herself shaking at the thought of the journey. Finally she sought peace in the little things she could do while she mended. She sewed Boromir new clothes, and listened to her maids, and as she got better she attended and even planned feasts as she had done as old. Now Denethor was given to running the city, for Ecthelion was getting old in years, and the feasts were not so dull anymore with him beside her. She relished every moment now, and resolved there should be no more strife. She regretted that she could no longer draw him from the shadow, and she sought now to keep him safe inside the city walls, and to be merry around him, so that he should find peace and happiness at home.

She often now was able to coax him into dances at court, or to visit houses, or even hold feasts unbidden. Denethor was lenient with her on by means of apology; he blamed himself for not defending her. But she also knew her earlier fears, since she first beheld the shadow had been verified. When Denethor forbade her earlier activities he did so quietly and in private, but she felt no desire to speak against his command. She resolved to find a new way to struggle with the shadow. Her maids were relieved now that she finally seemed to have accepted life in Minas Tirith, but though she now no longer fought against this fate with words or actions, she knew that her heart still rebelled.


	17. Along Came a Spider

What I would have

_Thanks for all those reading and especially for the reviews, they make an author's day._

Chapter 17 Along came a Spider

The days wore on as Finduilas regained her strength, and she attempted often to be merry, yet within her a conflict was rising unbidden, and she cast about her mind for a new solution to old troubles. She and Denethor had regained their old closeness in body, but once again a silence was growing between them. But all that might separate them was left unsaid by each to fester, and she feared the day those words should be unleashed. She thought that by never allowing herself again to voice the words that displeased him that she might in that way ensure peace. She thought long on her brother's advice, and resolved to find a new solution to her difficulties. She did not consider that there were others in the world scheming, and though she sought to protect her family, a foe would not wait until things were made sound ere striking. So it was that a sultry summer day brought dark clouds, lightening, and an old visitor that neither she nor her husband had looked for.

Saruman tore the scroll in frustration, he did not care that Alcontir wrote love poems in the high speech to Lady Telperion based on the Lay of Luthien. There was none of the works of Isildur here, only dim personal matters, the same as ever with men, all equally pointless. He had searched for days and found naught but these scraps. He passed over the chests holding personal affects and heirlooms. He knew where Gondor's most precious heirlooms, the star of Elendil and the armor of Isildur, lay. Both now were hidden in Orthanc, the useless bones discarded, but the ring was not there, and not a trace was left of it in Minas Tirith. His rage left him at the memory of his find in the marshes, and he was moved to laugh quietly at the thought of peat-covered bones. Such was the fate of mortal men, a shriveled and unlovely skull turned to noxious dust. Power was for the great who died not. If the gift of the One to men was death then he wished them the joy of it. He smiled quietly, he had one more errand before he left, and he enjoyed toying with men in the ripeness of their pride. If Denethor was moved to scorn by the weakness of men, Saruman was drawn to the kill. He hunted weakness as surely as a wolf in winter, and for all their great feats and subtle policies, at least one part of Gondor was weak indeed. He relieved the frustrations of a failed search with thoughts of the trouble to come, for he never did anything without several purposes, and he was in Minas Tirith for more than news of the ring; he sought other heirlooms of Gondor as well, and so did the master he pretended to serve.

In the gardens of the city Finduilas walked alone with little Boromir. The day had started well enough, she and Denethor had spent several happy weeks together, and she had begun to consider bringing more common women to the citadel, perhaps holding a lady's tea once a month or so, so that the wives of the soldiers should not feel themselves so abandoned. Even if they held her in scorn they would not scorn an invitation to the citadel, of that she could be sure, and eventually she could foster the feelings of affection that lay like a balm on fair Dol Amroth. Together the women could organize to share labor, and make sure all of their neighbors were well looked after. For a widowed heart needed friendship to buoy it up, and the hours of agonized waiting could be soothed with camaraderie, perhaps they could knit more leggings for the men together, for surely every soldier's wife had to do so, and the tediousness would be much relieved in the company of others. These were pleasant thoughts, and she sang softly to herself while all the while Boromir walked back and forth, brandishing his newest wooden sword in moves his father had taught him. Normally the sight caused her displeasure, as it served as a grim reminder of what was and what must be, but today she found his imitation touching, particularly as his childish limbs attempted the more complicated maneuvers. Yet suddenly Miriel came running into the garden, breathless with haste.

"My lady, oh my lady, they are being attacked," she cried.

Finduilas did not answer, but instead swept Boromir into her arms and ran behind Miriel to the wall. Denethor had ridden out earlier with a small escort of men, and now she heard horns blow and shouts from across the city. All could see the small escort, down by the river, and the large company of orcs that had burst from the woods of Ithilien.

The battle was already joined, and as word spread through the city a tense silence fell. All could make out the forms, but not clearly enough to ascertain whom each might be. When a man from Gondor fell a gentle noise spread through the streets, as though all the people softly sighed at once. When one of the enemy fell there were no cheers, for too close now had that enemy come. It was like watching men battle the tide, there were hundreds of orcs, and only one small battalion. The sailors from the ports had rushed to join the battle, unarmored as they were, and very soon the confusion and the distance made the battle indiscernible. One figure alone was plain: the one who lead the charge, and held it, even as the ranks broke about him, for they were terribly outnumbered. Finduilas wondered why the Ithilien companies had not been able to kill the creatures and with a chill realized that they may have indeed met with them, and none were left to bring word to the city. Now her husband, with a small regiment of new recruits, and their officers, was facing these fell beasts, Her hip suddenly ached, and she was forced to let Boromir slide to the ground, where he set up a howl for he wished to see the battle. Beside her Miriel stood with clenched fists and she whispered the name of her betrothed as though it were a charm to protect him. Finduilas, however, could not long endure the sight. She turned her face to the ground, unable to weep or to watch, awaiting a stroke of doom. Then as quickly as it had started the battle was over. A great cheer sprang up through the city like the crash of a wave, heralding its end. Then the cheer changed to a giant collective murmur, for all could see riders going out, and at least one wain was already being loaded with the fallen. Miriel asked for leave, which Finduilas gave. Then she stood in the garden, robbed now of joy and peace, watching Boromir wave his sword and then pretend to fall down wounded at his mother's feet. She turned her fears to exasperation, and pulling him up by an arm, was brushing the leaves out of his hair when a shadow fell across them both. She turned to see an old man.

She felt like screaming at the sight, for he seemed to have risen from the ground with the close of the battle, but she managed to hide her turmoil, or so she thought, and greeted him, "I am the Lady Finduilas, are you lost, father?"

"My Lady, " he said, bowing to her. "We have not before met, but I am Saruman of Orthanc."

Finduilas looked on the man without liking, and she felt Boromir shrink small against her. But it was not in her nature to be churlish and she pushed Boromir towards the door of her quarters, for she assumed the man was astray, and offered to guide him to the hall and Ecthelion. This Saruman gladly agreed to and as they began to walk out of the clear air into the shadows of the citadel he glanced back.

"A dangerous fight Lady. I am glad for the safety of these walls. Yet it must make you proud to see so valiant a man as your husband lead the men."

"All the city takes pride in the prowess of our soldiers," she replied, but the memory of a roadside skirmish lay heavy on her.

On the way to the hall the old man suddenly seemed to feel ill, and she gave him her arm to steady him, which he at first refused, and then accepted with a touching humility. Yet Saruman now desired for the attention of the healers. Finduilas could not very well leave him, and the whole city was gone to welcome the victorious soldiers back and seek their kin. She did not deem the healers to have much time on their hands, but she felt compelled, for courtesy and decency, to bring Master Saruman to the houses, for he was a man old and seemingly ailing.

As they approached the Houses of Healing he drew closer to her, and she quailed, for the wounded were being brought there. Being young and, in the case of the sailors who had fought, unarmored, their wounds were especially grievous. The healers, long accustomed to the horrors of war, treated them carefully yet calmly. The men themselves, for the most part utterly new to the horrors of war, lay on pallets. Some were unable to contain themselves and moaned and wailed in pain, but many seemed embarrassed to moan, or perhaps they wondered, being new to service, if such an action would bring shame on themselves and their comrades. Many of the soldiers were young, and at her approach they ceased weeping, embarrassed that a lady should see them thus. The older men were from the ports and ships, and most seemed amazed at the fate that had befallen them. Worst of all were the ones who had fallen entirely silent and seemed to sink into death even as they were brought in on litters.

Finduilas felt her stomach churn and would have fallen back, but Saruman now leaned heavily on her, and he seemed fascinated by the carnage, "Oh how grievous," he muttered and gestured with his hand.

There lay a young man of Gondor, very like in features to Denethor, and he sat upright against the wall of the houses, awaiting his turn with the harried healers. At their approach his eyes seemed to grow wild, and he flailed at his comrades who supported him. Then she that he had only one arm, the other was strangely truncated, and it ended in a large wet mass of cloth. Before her very eyes his wild flailing turned to sagging, as though he had spent his last strength. And his friend caught him he fell witless. Then she felt Saruman turn her from the sight and yielded to his guidance gladly, but on the other side of the entranceway near to them an old man began to cry and shake. Finduilas saw he held his side where blood oozed between his fingers. An old woman bent over him, at first Finduilas thought she was aiding the healers, but she quickly realized from the flashes of scales on her worn garments that she was a fishmonger, and no doubt it was her husband that lay now at the entrance to the houses. His white head shook and he cried out while the woman moaned and raised pleading wrinkled hands to the healers; but as quickly as the people of the houses worked they could not serve all at once, and they chose the ones they thought they could save first, leaving the more desperate to the chances of fate, for such was the custom. Most, however, found succor and comfort, but before the bearers could come for the old man he ceased his tortured struggles, and the old woman beside him, still in work dirtied clothes, began to wail. The tears mixed as bright rainbow drops with the scales on her garments, and she fell upon the street to cry beside her dead. She turned withered and dirty fingers into the ground outside the houses, and called upon her husband. Her white hair became wild and unbound, and her dirty garments brushed the body, and became smeared with blood. The sight of one so aged, so cruelly left, and so utterly bereft and degraded now made Finduilas herself begin to moan, though she knew it not. It was as though the man's death heralded a panic, and over all she heard Saruman's voice, the sound of one aggrieved and helplessly outraged, "The man dies in the street, are there none to aid him?"

And it seemed to all that heard him that they had fallen into the depths of ignoble despair, and that they should die too, unhonored and unmourned, and the wounded began to weep and curse. Many issued from the houses now to see what was the matter, but none could explain how a sudden panic had fallen upon them. Then Saruman at last turned away from the houses and took his luckless shadow with him, but he walked alone, for Finduilas had begun to run as if her feet had wings.

Finduilas sped through the city, unmindful of her family, her people, or even herself. All about her was only panic and despair. The faces she saw were not faces at all but grinning skulls of death. She shrank from their view and their touch. The smell of corpses came from the streets, and the air itself seemed full of foul creatures, fluttering about her and pulling at her. The shadows of the building seemed to stretch and grow and form into shapes. Shadowy fingers groped from alleyways, pursuing her if she paused but a moment.

In her panic she thought only of escape, yet she felt her body begin to tire, and as if in answer she saw she had made her way to the stables. There she grabbed Mearas by the halter, and she shrank from the stable boy who approached her for the pall of death seemed to be smeared across his features. The simple lad knew not what ailed the lady, but that she was in a hurry, and the moment her horse was saddled she flew down the streets, urging Mearas ever faster, unmindful of the people who leapt out of her way. As she neared the gates their progress was stopped, for there was a great swarm of people trying to go out to the soldiers or in looking for loved ones. Then she felt she should be buried beneath them, and their breath was like corpse gas, and about her their mouths hung open like the loose jaws of the dead. Their fingers brushed against her and clutched at her like worms, and those that tried to speak to her seemed to have glazed over eyes and she heeded them not.

Meanwhile a great blackness seemed to rise like mist from the ground, and as she watched in silent terror it spread up the legs of her mount and began to touch her feet like chill water. Above her the walls seem to sway, as though the rocks now would descend upon her, slowly crushing her into eternal darkness. Finally a space opened and she passed by the guards, who assumed she rode out to her Lord, and waved her past. Then she dug her heels into her mount, and rode like a gale over the fields. Away from the shadows of the city she fled, and the long cast shadows of the towers seemed to pursue her like dark fingers through the grasses of Pelennor. Only haste soothed her heart, and her panic was infectious to her mount, and he bore her swiftly from the city.

In the Hall of the Tower Ecthelion held a feast for Saruman, Lord of Orthanc, but with some misgiving. This man was no Gandalf, and his words all had many meanings. He trusted him not, for he was perilous, and while Gandalf left the city in a fire of expectation and haste, Saruman seemed to lull it to uneasy dreams, leaving an idle stillness that lasted long in his wake. It had been many years since he had come, once before in Ecthelion's time, and the new visit did little to hearten the Steward. He had spent the morning worried about his son, and later he had found Boromir in tears alone in his room, and so the day had been trying and long to an old man. Somehow Saruman made him feel even more tired and heavy, though his conversation was cheerful, and Ecthelion longed for the day to end.

When the tedious meal had ended Denethor returned, and Ecthelion wondered where Finduilas was, for he had seen her ride out to her husband, and he was worried lest they had fought ,for Denethor was plainly agitated and alone. Yet Denethor seemed to enjoy the new presence of Saruman, if enjoy could be used for anything involving his son. He stayed to sup in the hall with them, and Ecthelion wondered how Denethor, who could not be persuaded to spend more than a few hours a fortnight with his family, could be so easily consumed by conversation with the old man. He recalled how his son had rejected Gandalf, yet now there appeared almost the mirror image of evenings long past. Evenings that Ecthelion held in dear memory, when Gandalf and Thorongil would speak with him long into the night. Thorongil had talked warmly with Gandalf the few times they had sat at meat with Ecthelion, and then the old Steward had felt great joy, as though he were seeing life as it was purposed, the old guiding the young, the one providing wisdom to the hope and strength of the other. Yet his son and Saruman sat instead like two men regarding each other before a duel, every breath shallow, every muscle tensed, eyes alight with scorn and cold amusement; and clearly odds. There was something beyond that though, a secret Denethor withheld in his heart, and something he sought from Saruman, and Ecthelion, old and drowsy, felt worry creep upon him as he watched Saruman; for it seemed that the old wizard sought something from his son as well, and that he had already made him unmindful of all save his words. It reminded Ecthelion of a bird paralyzed by the eyes of a snake, yet he banished such thoughts as foolish, his son was powerful, and the man old.

Denethor gazed in wonder at Saruman. Here was yet another wizard, and if the man were like to Gandalf then he was a formidable opponent. Denethor did not think the battle of the river and the wizard's appearance were mixed by chance, yet here was one powerful, not craven, so he doubted he served the enemy. Seated in the hall was a long sought chance to take the measure of Orthanc, and Denethor strove to unravel the riddle of the old man before him. But strive as he might, Saruman effortlessly evaded his questions, and even more oddly he found his attention wandering to his wife. He had not seen her since that morning, nor had she been present when they dined as Saruman pointed out. He was especially angered that she did a discourtesy to a guest, one that Saruman had noticed and remarked upon. Denethor was weary himself, but he also refused to indulge his emotions when he had an obligation to duty. He had not forgotten the buildup of arms at Orthanc and he had yet to decipher this riddle. It seemed a sign of weakness to depart and leave a guest alone, and all the more unseemly that the lady of the house should not be in the hall.

Saruman meanwhile was speaking much and saying very little. His tone was almost honeyed, and had Denethor been himself it would have roused suspicion.

"I have not seen your lovely lady tonight my lord, she has such a manner about her, I know of no greater luxury for old men like myself than to be entertained by the gentle speech of women. And she made me feel at ease the moment I arrived. You are fortunate to have such a one who knows how to lighten the burdens of men."

"I shall bear that in mind," muttered Denethor, he wondered how to shift the conversation elsewhere, but at the same time he found himself thinking of her smiles to those about her, that her actions were perhaps too common. It seemed now to his memory that her smiles were too freely given. It had not occurred to him before, but now in the hall of Minas Tirith he began to think that at times she acted a bit foolishly, perhaps not as a lady of her station should.

"And such interesting conversation, she has quite the common touch, it is charming how much earnest care she gives to all in her country. A true mother to her people."

"That she is," Denethor replied, "as fine a lady as any man or country could wish." But he was irritated with the conversation and bothered by the pointless words.

"I wonder that you do not watch her more closely my lord," said Saruman in the tone of one gently concerned.

"How so?" asked Denethor, but his throat tightened for some reason. What idle speculation had now cornered his wife? He did not doubt her, but he knew her naïveté lead her often into danger, had he not once fought for her very life? He wondered what untutored foolishness she had engaged in now, opening them to common speculation and base intrigue.

"Why, only that I do not listen to gossips' tales, but given the hour…" Saruman trailed off.

"And would you care to speak plainer, for clearer though you do not listen you have heard," rasped Denethor, rage and concern rising in him. Had the man been younger Denethor would have had him by the throat, but the words seemed innocent, and the man was old, suddenly very small and old, as he rose leaning heavily on his staff.

"I meant no offense, my lord," Saruman said, "but it is indeed late, and I must leave early for my own lands."

Then pleased as a scorpion that has stung and waits only for his victim to quite its struggles, Saruman left the hall. To sleep under the roof of Gondor, confident that Denethor would now seek his wife in the only place he could find her. Sauron would that very night be handed the key to Minas Tirith, or so he had purposed. Yet unless Saruman missed his mark, Denethor would not yield to Sauron, rather fight, and then the lidless eye would be cast from its close watch on Orthanc. Saruman lay in the chamber in the white tower feeling much pleased. He was surrounded, as he was at home, with the works of little men over whom he would one day be lord to, as soon as his enemies had destroyed each other.


	18. A Meeting at the River

What I Would Have

_Thanks Rugi I'm glad to know the format is ok, I'm an absolute luddite. I actually got a lot fonder of Imrahil through writing him; I need him to bring some levity into the situation due to the shortage of hobbits. But I could never end the fic without this guy coming back could I? It matches the timeline I think. Bilbo has gone home, and Gandalf is seeking Gollum. There's a reason for all the separation, I needed it for my plot, and it seemed entirely too plausible with Denethor's personality._

Chapter 18 A Meeting at the River

Finduilas rode on, and some marveled as she galloped past, that any woman should have so urgent an errand, but none stayed her. In terror she gave Mearas his head, and the horse followed the gentle slopes and paths to the south. Soon she had reached the bank of the Anduin, for thus the road ran. She knew not the road, but before her the cries of gulls reached her ears, and the perfume of salt air drew her on. Yet even as she rode night fell, and now she drew her dark cloak about her, and Mearas on his own slowed and walked along the bank. The woods about were filled with river mist, yet she heard movements in the dark, their noises amplified by the fog and by terror, and she realized now with that there were fell creatures on either side. She had none about her for aid, and she knew that even should she find one of the ranger companies that watched the waters she had a fair chance of being mistaken for a foe herself. Yet being one alone she attracted little notice, and riding along the sand she made almost no noise, and good Mearas stepped carefully in the dark. The dark cloak about her hid her in the mists, and she passed like a shade though the perils that walked along those same banks.

As the night wore on the spell of terror left her, and she regained her senses but not her composure, for the realization of her circumstances descended on her. She was alone on an unknown path, and though she was fairly sure she was now at the Anduin, she knew not the turns of the river, nor could she be sure it was indeed that and not another of Gondor's waterways. She could only recall her terror and haste, no clear memories of the previous day lasted, and she was alone in the dark without guidance.

She pulled her mount to a halt, and in the silence the night creatures began to buzz, and she heard the gurgle of running water. Somewhere an owl hooted. Above her, since there were no lights at all, the stars glowed brilliantly with their white flames, obscured only at times by a passing cloud. There was no moon, however, and if she continued they would have to move blindly. Meanwhile she could not even see the ground below her mount, and while the horror of the blackness she had seen in her mind's eye was still with her, this real blackness brought fear as well. It took her a long time to summon the courage to dismount, and then she groped blindly in the dark. Clinging to the reins she reached out and groped in the dark until she felt the smooth bark of a tree, and then another. She led Mearas a few paces off the road into the blackness, and then they both halted. She pressed her back against a smooth birch tree and, consumed now with exhaustion, she slid down the bark until she sat upon the ground.

She sat for a long time in the dark, her mind in torment, and her body trembling with exhaustion. The pain of her old wound returned, and compelled her to stay put, but about her the night noises began to increase. For a while she crouched in terror. But as the night wore on the mists grew thin, and the land about her brightened enough for her to make out forms. In the starlight the river ran like a ribbon of glittering silver. She realized now that a choice lay before her, to follow the river south and seek her brother's aid, or turn back to the city. Either choice was filled with peril, for she knew not the way, and had no woodcraft. Then she felt the full weight of her foolishness. She looked up and down the river, half hoping for a ship and half dreading the discovery. She had no excuse or reason to give, save only shameful weakness. But no one came, and gradually her indecision left her, and she was by herself. She sat in the darkness, and realizing for the first time in her life she was alone.

As she sat long in the dark her eyes grew more adjusted, and she could see now that she was on a gentle bank, somewhat removed from the path. The shape of Mearas was visible, sleeping quietly nearby. About her were ferns, and tall trees. As she sat in silence and stillness the forest came alive about her. A small owl peeped out its head, and a mouse scurried across the path but a few feet away, and gradually there was a soft sound in the woods, and a herd of deer came, cautiously ever closer, down to drink at the river. They turned their large liquid eyes towards her and froze. Then slowly began to relax and go about their night business with large ears aquiver, stepping silently with slender legs. In the silver starlight Finduilas felt how very glad and alive everything was, even within the terrifying shadows. Then she wondered why she should move or return at all, or why any thing should know more sorrow than the fawn that brazenly foraged near her feet. The sky turned a deep blue above her, and she looked up at it, wreathed in the dark shadows of branches, lit by stars, and then before she knew it she was sound asleep.

Finduilas lay along the bank, propped up by the rough wood and surrounded by shadows. She had lain there since the turn of the night, exhausted from her panicked ride, and now the birds about her were singing and shaking the branches, and the deer across the stream paused and, bounding, disappeared into the trees. The sound of stealthy feet approached and Mearas snorted and let out a low whicker. Finduilas then moved in her sleep and she opened her eyes on a brightening sky, lit by pink and orange clouds. It recalled to her the bright mornings of her youth, where no large mountains or towers walled out the horizon. She felt her hand was held and she looked upon a dark head and grey eyes. Yet all the worry and sternness was gone from them, and they held only pity and love, and she smiled softly and said to the darkness, "Denethor, why do we not stay here? Why should we go back to so much grief? The deer do not labor, nor the birds. I had so longed for the sea, but I think now I will go no farther, and it is enough…"

Then her hand was squeezed and a deep voice asked, "Lady Findulas, have you taken some hurt? Awake and tell me, how come you here?"

Then she awoke fully with a cry, and shrank back, but the man beside her quickly drew her close to him, covering her mouth, and stifling the noise.

She felt his warmth breath whisper gently into her ear, "You have no need to fear me, you know me lady, but we must stay as quiet as possible lest we draw a foe to us."

Then Finduilas knew him, so like her husband, and yet so different, the errant Captain Thorongil.

She sat silently a moment, then all the dread of decisions descended upon her. Where she wanted to go, and what reasoning she could give. She had not time to consider these things, and Thorongil sensed her turmoil. She wanted the peace she had so recently found to come back, but singing birds announced the coming morning. She almost wished now that she could stay where she was, lost in the dreamy night, beyond all thoughts and cares, but she knew this could not be her fate. It was with relief too that she felt herself protected by the captain, and she did not question now that she was safe, but she was no longer sure she desired safety. The terror of the night had passed away, and in the great darkness she had suddenly felt free from care, to return now to light and questions was yet another sorrow, and she sat in miserable confusion.

Thorongil for his part cast his eyes about rather desperately. He had little provender for himself, and almost nothing to heal with. He was unhorsed, for he tracked on foot at the will of Mithrandir. The woman in his arms seemed frightened and ill, and he knew not how she came to such a place, though he feared now that some evil had befallen her husband, and Minas Tirith was in danger. At length though she looked on him and colored.

"Captain Thorongil," she whispered with a red face, "I went for a ride and became lost. If you could tell me the road home, I'm sure I could find it."

Then Thorongil looked deep into her eyes and saw there was much she left unsaid, but he knew now where she desired to go, and he could bring her there, so he gently helped her to her feet. Though he continued to hold her, for now she sagged against him and he saw she was weary and ill.

He said nothing, for all noise was perilous, but when she was steady on her feet he took off his own cloak and wrapped it warmly about her. It smelled of wood and mud and the smoky odor of pipeweed, and she remembered that her husband had always hated that habit. He claimed it made him think the house was on fire every time he smelled it.

Yet now it smelled of comfort and home, the simple gesture was touching, and only the gentleness and comfort born of a kind heart could have at that moment persuaded her back to the road. It served as balm for her heart, and before long she found herself back on the path to Minas Tirith, riding at a slow pace with Thorongil walking vigilant at her stirrup. In that action he was so like to Denethor that she smiled, yet unalike, for there was something in Thorongil that her husband did not possess. A humility marked his movements, a grace that comes through compassion. He stopped at the break of morning for her to rest, and he had yet to ask a single word of her, but the silence was peaceful about them, neither demanding nor sorrowful.

Thorongil helped her down from the horse in an area he seemed to feel safer, though he did not light a fire, but he brought out dried fruits and pressed her to eat them, and he spread the saddlecloth to make her a seat upon the ground. They sat in silence for a while, breaking a simple fast in the sweet dawn light. Then Thorongil suggested that they ride on, and it seemed to him that she paled at the sight of the rode. And he asked her if she wished to rest a bit longer.

"I do not wish," she began and faltered, and wept. And he held her and soothed her, and for once she was unashamed, even though she wept before a stranger. She could not explain why she felt such ease around him, unless it was in how like he was to her husband, yet unalike, for his perceptions seemed to move his kindness rather than his scorn. Yet she loved Denethor more than aught else in life, and she wanted nothing more than to regain the love they had shared.

At length Thorongil cleared his throat and asked, "What is it you desire? If you could do as you will lady? What would that be?"

And she spoke from her heart, "I would sail, I would sail beyond memory, beyond despair and hope, I would be at sea, and a child again- free from all care and strife."

He looked at her for a moment, yet he seemed to be looking beyond her, and at that moment she suddenly recalled the doom of Numenor, of the lost West, to ever live within sight of immortal peace, yet never to gain it. Then Thorongil again looked upon her and asked, "That is your wish?"

And she paused and looked out over the water and said, "I know not my own mind, for I now would want him with me, but he would not come."

"He desires you to be with him as well." Thorongil said, beginning to perceive the roots of her sorrow.

"We tear ourselves asunder with our own efforts. I know not what has gone wrong, but all we do turns to ill."

"And you can not ask him?"

"No." She said, "You must forgive me, captain. I did not mean to speak thus, I am grieved, I do not deny it. But I speak of it foolishly. Do not think I fly my husband, I desire nothing more than to be by his side, but he will not have me there."

"You need healing lady, if you cannot stay in Minas Tirith I would not have you throw yourself away to nothing. If you must stay with your brother then you should tell the Steward so."

"No, I have chosen to serve Gondor, and if I made that decision in ignorance I cannot rescind it now. But my husband never had such a choice, and so cannot see beyond what he knows." She paused for a moment, "I cannot," she gestured at the woods about them, "share this with him. He would see a place for an outpost, or an orchard, but he would not value it as it were, because war and duty are the world to him."

Thorongil asked incredulously, "Did you not see this before you were wed?"

"I saw it, but I thought I might show him something beyond. He was always so fey, even in his joy. What he loves he keeps locked within his heart, until he will not allow even himself to handle it, lest it should break. But life and all beauties beyond Gondor he heeds not."

Thorongil thought for a moment, and replied, "He heeds it lady, through you, and you alone of all in Middle Earth, and for that reason my mind tells me now to bring you back to him, but if this is the result of thus being the whole of his heart then it seems a heavy price."

"He will always sacrifice his heart rather than his duty, my brother warned me of that before I married him," Finduilas said sadly.

"And now you seek to escape your marriage?"

"Never," she answered vehemently, "Never. I thought that by marrying him I could protect him from the dark fate he has wrought for himself, not the fate set for him even before his birth. It seemed so cruel that he should always live in darkness, until the day it swallowed him. He deserves better, for he is a good man."

"And so you would have him laugh and be merry when he could, and not eternally riding out to battle this shadow."

"That is so, captain. I may dream of sailing to peace and happiness, but he would never follow me on that voyage while his country had need of him. Yet I would share with him that happiness, even if it is only a dream."

Thorongil smiled then gently at her, "You seek to do this by stepping between your husband and the shadow? Do you marvel then that he will not let you?"

And she was silent as one deep in thought. "Then he fears even as I do," she said at last, in a tone of understanding and wonder, "yet he shows it not."

"I think that is so, lady, but rather than find peace for himself, which is not now possible, he has been content in trying to find it for you. You thus wound him to reject it," Thorongil added gently.

And Finduilas nodded and bowed her head. Thorongil looked towards the northwest, somewhat uncertainly. "The morning wears on lady, and we must be away, whichever path you choose. I cannot offer you my counsel in this, though it seems now that fate must be cruel to one of you. For the sake of Gondor and duty I would urge you back."

"I did not care for such a fate, but I will not rebel any longer against it." She replied.

"You no longer feel it to be wrong," he said with relief.

"No, I will persevere and have faith in the West. If there is peace beyond this world I will not depart while I still owe my service."

"You may do that service from Dol Amroth as well as from Minas Tirith," Thorongil pointed out.

"No, I must give him my peace, he needs it more."

Then she mounted and they set out again, and they went faster now, for it seemed that the weight was gone for her heart. Finduilas looked upon Thorongil, at war and yet at peace, and she thought of how she had first took him for her husband and then she asked, "How came you to such acceptance, for you think as he does, that you must grapple with this shadow, yet you have peace. Tell me then how this is so."

And Thorongil was silent a long moment then replied, "Nay lady, I cannot."

"Indeed you must, for it is for his sake I wish to know, if I could find the peace he seeks I will redeem my other flaws." Finduilas pressed.

And the words pierced him, for she was lovely and naïve still, "It will disturb your own mind and heart I fear."

Then she felt hope again, and explained, "That I may return in something other than shame, you might tell me, if I could only once again have something to offer him."

It seemed to Thorongil that a beautiful young woman had plenty to offer a husband in love with her, and he spoke slowly, "what comforts one may not do for another."

"But if you know of some hope that I am unaware, why would you thus conceal it?" She pleaded.

He sighed, "For hope can break hearts as well as heal them."

"Is there some future chance you are aware of?"

"Nothing that cannot be altered. I know of no plans in battle, or strength or devices that your husband does not at least guess."

She smiled a little, "Then your secret is neither plan nor device. Come do not be silent, I fled silence before and I will go further now if I have no cause to go back."

And Thorongil said, "I have the love of a lady, and whatever betide she is my happiness and my peace, and all my hopes and dreams she holds for me safe and dear."

Finduilas felt her heart quicken once again, in hope, and in defiance. She rode beside him, determined and terrible and utterly beautiful. A woman who has rediscovered dreams long hidden and now carries them in her mind and heart. Her burden seemed lighter then, and she found that she wept, she wept and was glad, for it seemed that an answer she had long sought had come to her, and as she rode Thorongil saw her tears and he placed a hand upon her, and the warmth of his body flowed through her. He feared to have wounded her, but she seemed the happier for it.

"That is such a simple answer is it not?" she said in a quiet voice.

"The truest ones often are," he replied, uncertain still whether he should have told her, for the knowledge seemed a condemnation, and he was not sure whether to council such love to a woman wedded to Denethor.

They continued in silence for a while; but on seeing Thorongil, who had always been tender and warm in his dealings with her, was grieved, her heart yielded and she spoke to ease his mind.

"All my youth I aspired to greatness, and I was ignorant. I understand now, at what price such things are bought, and it is not sorrowful."

"There are many great things you have in your possession that need not be bought through sacrifice: a fine son, and the love and faith of your subjects, and the fair works of the city. That which is fair need not always be gained through sorrow, nor defended through service."

"They are not mine Captain Thorongil, they are promised to some long dead line of kings, a memory and a shadow. The service is real only, the object of that service some distant ghost. And as my husband chases that far off phantom of glory, I feel my life is filling with ghosts."

Then Thorongil was silent for a while and she feared she had wounded him until again he spoke, "I have no rights in this matter, as I am neither father nor husband. I have no claim of kin, but I say as a man might to someone high and excellent that you do yourself no dishonor in acting according to your measure."

"To my measure?" she replied, "Indeed! I know now my full measure. I was undecided is all. I am to return. There are, as you have said, many beautiful and noble things, and if they have proved themselves to be flanked with horror and sorrow then I will love them the more for being bought so dear."

But Thorongil was troubled, for he saw in her the eyes of a martyr, one who would bless the flames as they burned her. It was the mature version of the dreamer, the zealot who walks in ideals. The last refuge of the desperate, when, finding not what they seek in the world about them, are determined to find it in themselves.

"Yet, my lady, there are many kinds of service that shall defeat the shadow, even those who do no more than stand and wait."

"Stand and wait! All men it seems would have a fair lady waiting at home to provide a solace for the world's grief: like a butterfly or bird on a string. But if that is the happiness of men then I will serve it for his sake." And as she spoke the words turned Thorongil cold, for he could offer no other counsel, and he knew her choice to be the right one as surely as he could see the outcome.

Freed of a weight though she now seemed, and all hard decisions passed. She turned towards him in a shadow of the gay manner of her youth, "Since you speak so highly of your lady you must tell me why you are not wed."

"I still strive for that happy outcome, not unlike your husband I shall only earn that happiness through much darkness and toil."

At those words she turned her head slightly, and it seemed she would say something more, but then the road opened out before them, and she recognized one of the main supply roads of the river, and not far off a company of soldiers of the guard, and one hailed her. Then she saw that Thorongil had backed away towards the trees, and realizing that he would now depart she said,

"The Valar protect you, and give you what you seek."

"You as well dear lady, and so farewell, for I fear we shall not meet again in this world, you and I."

"Then do I rejoice- for ever young and fair may I be to you, and always gay and bold thou shall be to me- whatever may pass."

The indecision that had lined her brow was gone, and if she was now doomed, and he read it in her, then she would face that doom with the grace she possessed, in her own fashion. Then Thorongil followed the path of the river, seeking a creature twisted through a long life of evil desires; and Finduilas turned towards Minas Tirith, to surrender her dreams for her husband's sake. To throw herself at his feet if need be, and ask only to worship him.


	19. The Palantir

What I Would Have

_Hi everyone thanks so much for the reviews. I had the worst case of writers block. (1 yr !) Saruman was the key. I'm glad the writing was clear enough for people to pick up on that infamous voice. Yes, Saruman plays the weakness of both, but remember he also uses a palantir and it struck me that if Sauron knew of one he might also have designs on the other. So my idea was he would send Saruman to make Denethor use it, and Saruman would need to find a way to make him._

Chapter 19 The Palantir

Denethor walked swiftly through the halls of his quarters and found them dark. His wife did not wait for him in the chamber they usually shared. Her private quarters were likewise empty. With a sinking heart, he made his way to the nursery. There a small fire burned, and Boromir's nurse dozed in her chair. The room was dark but comforting, and filled with relics of boyhood, tiny woodland souvenirs, toy soldiers and swords, and a horn suspended over the bed, a promise of deeds to come. In the bed a small dark head of hair and two bright eyes gazed back at him. Denethor lowered himself carefully next to his son, and spoke quietly as to not wake the nurse.

"Do you know where your mother is?"

He watched Boromir solemnly look at him, struggling to think, and his eagerness soothed Denethor's heart.

"She is at the Houses of Healing, father."

"Why?" He asked, smoothing his son's hair with a hand, comforting him to hide his own dread.

"Because she took the old man there, but I was not supposed to follow." This last ended in a whisper.

"Then I will not tell," Denethor assured him, "and then whither, did she go inside?"

"I don't know," Boromir replied. "He looked at me when they drew near, and I was afraid I was disobeying mother. I went right back."

"All right then," Denethor replied, withdrawing his hand and softly caressing a cheek. "Go to sleep."

And Boromir shut his drowsy green-gray eyes, and passed into sleep. Denethor stayed beside him for a moment, listening to the little breaths, looking at the small features, the unkempt hair, the dirt under tiny fingernails. He never ceased to gaze at his son with wonder, and whenever he did he was amazed that such a child could come from the love between them. He had never ceased to worship his wife for giving him so wonderful a son. Yet tonight she was gone from their home.

At the Healers he was greeted by a tired and blood spattered servant who wearily informed him that his wife was not inside, and more than that the man could not tell him, having no time to care beyond the wounded and dying. Denethor could not imagine his wife visiting such a place, for he knew that battle horrified her, and he wondered why she had come here, or if she even had. Saruman had been ill his son said, but the old man had seemed fine at dinner. He stopped for a moment, lost in thought. There was nowhere else to go in the city, unless she were in the servant's areas, and they would have been sure to send her back ere dark. With a thrill of fear he wondered if she were outside of the walls, despite his command, and what that might mean.

He entered the stables, smelling the familiar and reassuring odor of horse and polished leather. The heat of the animals made the stable seem safe and inviting, and for a moment he relaxed. Tulkas neighed a full-throated welcome, but Mearas was missing. His wife's horse was gone, none but she could have taken it past the guards of the gates. Denethor ran a hand through his hair in frustration, had she gone to her brother? It seemed possible, but the journey was impossibly long and difficult, and she could not have taken much provision if any. Her maid's horse was still stabled, and since the woman herself had not come to him in a panic he surmised her mistress had given her leave for the night. Then Finduilas was indeed beyond the city, the eve after a battle, and in peril. But he knew not where to search for her, nor why she had left. It would be nigh impossible to discern one set of hooves from the thousands about the city. If she were lying nearby injured he could not find her in the dark, he could not very well comb the whole of Pelennor fields by torchlight. In that moment of doubt and confusion his thoughts fled to the orb above his study, to the palantir, the seeing stone. He paused for a moment indecisive, then Tulkas stamped his hoof, awakening Denethor from his thoughts, "We will find her shortly, first I must discover where to seek," he spoke to the horse, and quitting the stables he ran to the tower.

* * *

Panting from his quick race up the stairs, Denethor ran his hand over the orb. He half expected nothing to happen. He had never felt the need to use the stone, and it was rumored that only the king could do so. Denethor hated tales; if the stone could be worked he would do so now. Yet the minute his fingers touched it a spark appeared deep within its depths, and he pulled his hand quickly back. The stone suddenly seemed to grow deeper, far deeper than possible for its size, and within the depths were images. To hear of such things was one thing, but this art was clearly before him, and he was transfixed with awe. He ran a hand behind the stone, and despite its clear texture his hand was obscured. He saw now more pictures appearing in its depths, it seemed incredible and yet it was so. He thought now of all the years and scouting missions he could save, simply by something long kept in his own tower. Denethor frowned. The thought came to him that he could have foreseen the battle today with this very stone. Why had he never thought to use it before? Was it greed and personal need that compelled him? Surely he should have thought of it before now, as an asset to his city, and it was strange that he had never even considered the benefits of its use.

The palantir would apparently work unbidden, for it glowed with life and in its depths a new image formed and grew clear. In far Harad he was now, and saw there armies moving, men in rows chanting, jumping in a queer dance as they brandished swords, and they held aloft their pikes and on them were heads. Then the image shifted again, far beyond to lands he had never seen, to men who were strange, whose features were like goblins', and he saw now that in his vision a son slew his father. Then it shifted again as the old man fell from the throne, and he beheld slaves who wailed in some hopeless and dark pit. He saw a vision of the west, as far as the Gulf of Luhn, and there was a grey ship and leaving the ship a grey figure. The figure walked down a dock and before on the dock was one high and noble, but he bowed to the withered and grey one. Then it seemed like they clasped hands, and the globe sparked as though lit with a torch. Then Isengard was before him, and he saw many men were laboring there, and that they manufactured weapons. He beheld the Anduin and saw as though from a great height, whole landsides of men marching, and they laughed as they marched and slew as they traveled. Unbidden, he suddenly beheld an Ithilien company, and his heart grew troubled. He greatly desired to check on his men, but his mind worked furiously, this was not the only Palantiri, could it be that others saw such things as well? Or did one need knowledge in order to seek? Did one even now peer into these visions before him; delve into his secrets even as he sought out theirs?

Then the globe spun and the image changed and he realized with a thrill of fear that another will had moved it, a will not his own. He frowned as the globe grew dark and darker, as dark as the cloud over Mordor, and then he saw for a moment what he thought was Minas Tirith corrupted, cast down and filled with ghosts, but his breath caught as he realized he beheld Minas Ithil and that it was filled with fell men. Then the vision raced over scorched earth and through black reek. Through the darkness moved shapes, great beasts and forms like men, but hideous. There was army after army, orcs and wargs, and great preparation. And then he felt fear and rage flow through him as though he were immersed in boiling water. He saw the globe turn towards a great eye of fire and a presence began to form, a thought to appear in his mind. Then Denethor in great agony of mind focused his will upon the globe.

"I do not wish to see this." He uttered the thought aloud to give it focus. The image in the globe blurred and spun, his mind felt as though it were on fire. His whole mind began to scream at him, that he could not endure the pain, the feeling of being cast before that fire. In another moment the eye would be upon him, and he would have no choice but to yield.

"I will behold the crossroads now." Denethor said through a clenched jaw, his voice barely more than a whisper, his muscles twitching with the strain.

For a moment the fiery eye turned towards him, almost as though it could see…and then it was gone and he beheld the giant and mournful trees, sickened and blasted, that lay on the edge of Gondor. The flame was gone from his mind, but the pictures in the orb were hazy.

Then by great will he summoned the hills he had ridden earlier, and he beheld the night there, and that the patrols he sent were weary but vigilant, and he beheld the faces of the men. The picture again shifted slightly, and it was only by great strife that he kept the orb focused, it seemed ever to be pulled by a force, and he knew now what will it was he strove against.

With effort he withdrew his eyes and sat back in the chair. It took great will not to immediately reopen them. The world outside of the stone now seemed unreal, and the orb called to him to gaze again within its depths. Only a lifetime of discipline allowed him to keep his eyes closed, and he felt how very tired he was in mind and body. He was weary, and his limbs shook.

Deep down in his heart, part of him wanted to look in the globe again, to throw his eyes again into Mordor, to see the foe, his foe, foe of his fathers and kin beyond the reckoning of days, just once to see him face to face, this Maiar who brought destruction to his people. He also now felt a thrill of pride, for had he not just battled wills with an immortal, and had he not won? But Denethor was wise, and he remembered the pride that had destroyed Numenor once before, he did not underestimate his foe; instead he sat for a long time with his head in his hands.

He did not weep, though he had good cause. The armies being gathered, he did not doubt, were real enough, and his forces were already stretched thin. He had seen great preparations he realized, and whether for good or evil he knew not. But he could use the stone now, he could bend it to his will and whatever might come to the land of Gondor, he would know it before it came and make ready. Indeed, he alone held this knowledge now, and as though a voice had proclaimed it, he felt now his doom upon him, to stand alone against the foe of men. The resolve strengthened his heart, and he was aware again of himself, and he realized that he had spent many long hours in the garret.

* * *

Denethor stood and was amazed to find his knees weak, and his eyes bleared. He felt an overwhelming need for rest. He had not realized how taxing the visions had been, nor how much that battle had cost him. Then the import of his thoughts, that his doom was to stand alone, chilled his breast and limbs- what had become of Finduilas, and why had he not sought her first over the long hours of the night? At that moment his eyes fell back upon the palantir and with thought bent full upon Finduilas, he beheld her.

She lay in a cool blue light, though her face was oddly obscured as though by a mist. There was a faint smile upon her lips as of old, but the merriment of youth did not light upon her features. Rather they seemed greatly stilled, like one who has found great peace. Then Denethor's heart quailed and he heard his own voice whisper hoarsely, "Finduilas!"

It seemed that she awoke to his voice, for her eyes opened, and she smiled slightly with the confusion of deep sleep, yet her form was hidden in darkness or the stuff of dreams. For a moment she appeared to be in the night sky itself; her shape wreathed with stars. Then he realized that she wore the starry mantel pulled about her. The mists were from the river, and as the image expanded he beheld it glittering. So she was by the Anduin, though why he could not guess. Then like one who is dreaming, Denethor watched her rise and with a gentle sigh fold herself into the arms of Thorongil.

Then the palantir went blank, and likewise the mind of Denethor. Of all ill chances in the world he had never doubted her love for him, and he did not know before how much he had trusted to it. With the sight of his people he had always basked in her admiration, and been sure of the love that shone in her eyes. Now it appeared that his foresight had failed. She had this very night fled his house, and lay in the arms, even now, of his old rival. These thoughts were an agony to him, and he could bear the seeing stone no longer. He had prided himself on his knowledge of the world, yet his wife's love had always been something from beyond to him, the sort of perfect love that only came from songs. He had clung to that love, to that belief, throughout many trials, and now he felt as though a prop he had long leaned upon were kicked out from beneath him. He staggered to the wall of the tower, and was glad for its cold strength.

"She is lost, she is lost!" he cried to the stones. He had begun this night in terror for her safety and now he would almost have preferred to find her dead. Had she died her love would have still been clean and pure in his eyes. Had she died he could still believe such love were possible. Now she had fallen from the nobility he had once felt to be such an inalienable part of her character. His thoughts flew over the years of childish wonder, the soft looks she had given him, the tears that had moved him, and all felt now to be an art and a show. Another tasted those sweet lips; her rare and wonderful love was now as common and cheap as any other. He tortured himself with these thoughts until, at last, he wept, for in all his life he had never known so bitter an injury. But at length he felt his pain turn to fury. It was like a draught of ice water, and it sobered him. He ran his hand over his face to wipe away the tears and straightened his tunic.

With that action his hand ran over his sword hilt, and he grasped it. The thought came to his mind that she had brought shame to all of Gondor, to his house, to him. He might avenge, he could kill her; certainly he could kill Thorongil. But the thought was quickly banished. He never killed save from necessity, and there was no purpose here except wounded pride. He took no joy in bloody thoughts, and his mind balked at them now. He must, however, bring her back, and swiftly before this scandal became the common knowledge of Minas Tirith. Once she was safely housed within the walls of his house he would see to it that she no longer strayed.

With grim purpose he now made his way down the stairs, he passed swiftly to his chambers in order to wash his face, and remove the evidence of his tears. On his way back out of the quarters he passed once again the nursery, and he entered the room where Boromir lay. He saw that his son slept fitfully, and he picked up the child and held him for a long moment in his arms. Boromir awoke and yawned, and Finduilas' eyes gazed back at him as the small arms wrapped about his neck. Then the fury he felt left him, and his heart and mind were in turmoil. He had fancied himself done with love, yet here once more was the pull upon his heart. All the fell visions of the world could not expunge his feelings for his wife and child. He wanted things back as they were before; he wanted to believe that he could put them back, and repair what was broken. Denethor rocked his boy in his arms and marveled that such a few short hours could make him such a poorer man. Boromir whimpered in his sleep, and Denethor sought to quiet him. He tried to think clearly, and reasoned that perhaps he should not search for his wife at all, that he should let her return of her own accord, or let her go. He no longer knew what the best course of action might be, and his mind drowned in confused uncertainty, as did his heart.

* * *

Gradually the house stirred around him. Boromir's nurse entered to check on him and gave a gasp of fright. Denethor raised his bloodshot eyes to her, and she shielded the candle and curtsied, stealing back out of the door. Boromir had long since fallen back to a sound sleep, and as Denethor walked back and forth he felt the warm silky hair under his own, and the soft arms of his son about his neck. His heart was breaking, but here was still a son who depended on him, and about him a city was stirring that would soon look to him as well. He needed to find his wife, come what may. Already the nurse was suspicious. In the hall Denethor heard her hurried conversation outside the door.

"Most frightened me to death, he looked like a wraith standing there, holding his son, I thought a ghastie had come for the boy and if it weren't for that I had known him these many years I would've called upon the Valar and guards both."

A woman's voice clearly replied, "Hush woman, your speech is rather to unguarded for these halls."

Denethor turned when the door was reopened to find Miriel there, "My Lord," she faltered as she curtsied, "I'm sorry the girl has not yet made the fire, I will see about it. If you are up I will call on my Lady."

She had turned to leave when Denethor called after her, "The Lady Finduilas has gone riding. Expect her not until night; speak not of this as you love your mistress." And as the woman stood amazed he laid Boromir in his bed went out.

He sought first Ecthelion at his seat, but the first golden shards of morning had barely begun to light the hall, and he was obliged to find his father in his quarters. Ecthelion was in the process of dressing as Denethor entered the room. "How now, my captain General, is there a force on the borders?" He asked, half serious and half in jest, pulling a dressing cloak about him.

"No my lord, I have come to ask for leave."

"Leave!" Ecthelion exclaimed, suddenly looking much more awake. "You are not traveling a month to inspect some out of the way outpost?" He rose and began to pull on his boots, waving the servants out of the room. Then he settled in a large chair. "They think I cannot make my own fire. They're right too. Well, if you must go running through the countryside you have leave. Young Boromir and I will have some merry times, I suppose."

"I expect to be gone only a day."

"And where do you propose to go in a day?"

"The banks of the Anduin."

Then Ecthelion turned to his son, and he started and said in a voice that trembled, "Have you looked into the glass this morning?"

It seemed a very odd question to Denethor, and he wondered briefly if his father had lost his wits.

"Go, do so," Ecthelion urged.

Then Denethor looked and understood. For a moment he looked upon the face of his grandfather as he remembered him. There were deep lines set in his forehead, and his hair was frosted now with silver that had not been before. About his eyes and mouth the weariness of age was also stamped, and he put a wondering hand up to his face.

"What evil has befallen you, my son?" Ecthelion asked, laying a hand on his shoulder.

And Denethor, still amazed, turned from the mirror and replied, "I know only that my wife is in peril, I go to seek her."

"Finduilas? How can that be?" Ecthelion asked, still looking closely at Denethor.

"She left last night apparently, I knew it not until now."

"Then how do you know where she is?"

To this Denethor did not answer, but he met his father's eye, and Ecthelion guessed. "It is your fate perhaps, Denethor, to surpass the deeds of all other men, but greatness has a price, and pride a greater one. Is it not enough to rule the last city of men? What new care have you taken upon yourself?"

"One that could not be avoided," Denethor replied.

"You are ill then, stay and take your rest, send a man instead." Ecthelion tried, but his heart was crying out for his child, who now looked closer to death than many who are called.

"Aye, I'm sick at heart father. But my cure lies beyond the city."

As he spoke Ecthelion looked beyond his features, and into his eyes, and he saw they veritably smoked with fury. A fear then possessed him and he faltered, "If you seek your wife, take Boromir with you."

"Nay, father." Denethor replied. His features fixed in a carving of pain as he looked back steadily.

The old steward broke the gaze first and, looking down, said quietly, "Very well then, son, but remember Gondor has need of you."

At this Denethor paused, "Yes, Gondor has ever growing need." And he left his father and rode from the city, to seek his wife, though he knew not what he would do when he should find her.


	20. Betrayal

What I Would Have

_Time to bring all this to a head. To paraphrase Sam, 'we don't want them to know the truth.' Angst by the boatload, and here is why I wrote the story. I had this idea for a long time, since I read the appendices, (6 yrs) and I think it goes a long way to explain Denethor's bitterness. Also a line in RoTK- where he admonishes Faramir for trying to appear 'like the kings of old.'_

Chapter 20 Betrayal 

Denethor sped across the morning fields. Tulkas ate up the miles, springing eagerly through the misty dawn, earth churning from beneath his hooves. Denethor, his hand on his sword hilt, raced down the river road. At midmorning he spotted a small escort coming towards him, and he eased to a canter when he recognized the blue mantel. His gaze flew to the men beside her, but he saw only two soldiers of Gondor, fresh in from the outposts and awkward in their bearing. Thorongil had not waited to face his wrath. The two escorts, now aware of his approach, rode in front to protect her. He hailed them and threw back his cloak that they might see the emblem of the white tree as he approached.

When he drew near Finduilas froze for a moment in shock, for he had aged many years in one night, and his face was now framed with grey and lined with many cares that before had not made an impression. Denethor saw her draw back as though dismayed, and his hands shook on the reins, for he loved her still and feared that she would now renounce him. He had barely realized the thought; however, when she slipped from her mount and ran to him, pressing his hand to her cheek. He paused, uncertain and embarrassed.

"I have been weak, my lord, forgive me." She said gazing up at him.

"All men are weak, even those of high renown," he replied as neutrally as he could. Then he grew ashamed and dismounted so that they should be equal. The moment he was on the ground she flew into his arms, and he clung to her as well, his heart aching as though it would burst from his chest. Love and fury mixed equally in him. He moved his hand through her hair, and felt her arms wrap around him. Denethor closed his eyes, and for a moment he could fancy this was any other morning, and that they were but newly risen to greet it together. Then his hand brushed the folds of her cloak, and the unmistakable odor of pipe smoke rose from it, and he drew back. "Come, my lady," he admonished as she continued to cling to him.

She released him and allowed herself to be escorted back to Mearas, where he boosted her up into the saddle. Then Denethor unfastened the reins and made a rope of them, so that he might ride and lead her mount. Seeing her back in the care of her husband, her makeshift escort bowed, and Denethor waved them back to their posts.

Then they rode together back towards Minas Tirith, their mounts in tandem. The river rolled on beside, and the morning was as still and silent as they were. No breeze rustled the leaves and the woodland creatures hushed with their approach. He would have welcomed an ambush at that point as an object on which to work his own tortured feelings, but the day wore on in oppressive stillness, and since he could not face his wife he stared out across the river at the shadow. Yet he remained aware of her, and perceived that she was struggling with words. The wait grew until the fires died in his heart, and as he gazed across the river to the blackness of Mordor. He no longer felt the surety of his youth at that ominous sight. He knew now the armies that shadow concealed, and he was afraid. At that moment his heart as ever sought the comfort of his wife. As Finduilas rode with cast down eyes, he reached out and took her hand in his, caressing the tops of her fingers lightly with his own.

Then she spoke in a small voice, "I had not thought to the trouble this would cause."

"Few know you have left," Denethor replied, "I have seen to that. Now you are back, and so let it be." Then he continued uncertainly, "If it no longer pleases you to be with me, you could go to your brother."

She turned in amazement to look at him, "Nay, nay lord. I have always wanted to be with you. To be there whilst you are here…" And then she faltered. "I could have no peace, no matter how fair a port, without you, I know that now more than ever."

Denethor turned to view her face and saw it damp with tears. He felt as old men do, with vanity fled beyond recalling, and the sorrows of love faded to regretful memory, "Things should lie plain now between us," he said, "There is no need for concealment of thought or deed."

And she did not answer him but said instead with a strange fondness, "You never falter, you are so constant. But I know at times you scorn men for their slightness. I feared you would think ill of me; I have always feared for you to think ill of me."

Denethor managed a half smile, "One would not think this the best way to earn my esteem, my lady. I have always thought highly of you for the actions you undertook for our people, and I weigh that against all that is less pleasing."

"I know the people at times mock at me for my intentions, and you never have." Finduilas continued humbly, "You are always so patient, but only with me. You are so stern with others, even yourself, and that is why I had hoped it might be I who could aid you."

Denethor could see her great confusion and unrest, but her words were indecipherable.

She paused. "I cannot even speak my mind," she said with a slight laugh

"Perhaps because you do not know it. Perhaps it is in conflict with your heart." Denethor replied bitterly, suddenly withdrawing his gaze and instead looking at the darkly flowing river.

"Aye, I think often I have a dream and it fades with the light of day, but you! You who have seen so many days- why did you let me continue in my folly, and not warn me? I never knew before how ruinous our dreams could be."

Denethor replied in amazement, for it seemed she thought the events of the evening to be his fault, "My lady, I have other cares, including the entirety of Gondor, to consider, and all the peoples who enjoy her protection." And he watched her wilt and struggled to continue, "but I have loved that in you since the moment we met, that you have always seen the world differently than I, and persist in your faith. I have marveled at the delight you find in things I do not see, and the purpose you find in things others overlook."

"Yet fail in my own purpose," she added.

"All of the actions of men are doomed to fall short of their purpose. Life is a struggle, we have no elven havens in which to hide from the shadows about us. We build and rebuild against the tide. We marry and then bring grief to those we love, against our wishes. All of us fail in our purposes," Denethor replied, for he felt confused himself now, and it seemed to him that they were like two strangers shouting in a wind, each drowning out the sense of the other. He struggled again to understand her words and bring meaning to his own, "I do not ask you to account for actions that I can see with my own eyes, only that you tell me of what is in your mind, for there I cannot delve."

"Oh," she cried out suddenly, "but you can! In this only do I find fault with you, for you can see into the hearts of others, but only when you care to look. Can you not see now what is in mine?"

Unsettled, Denethor continued gently, "Perhaps that is so, yet I need none of the gifts of my fathers to see you are unhappy. I need you to stay here, if you can, for despite what may conspire between us your fate is joined with mine. We both share a fate entwined with this land and the White City, and you as well lead this land. I cannot have the lady of Minas Tirith, the Lady of the Steward of Gondor," he paused, "wandering about the countryside. The people need you here as an example."

He did not add to that that he would not look into her heart, if she had learned the price of dreams, then he that night had learned the price of vision. There was some knowledge now that he knew was too much, that would sear the eyes or mind of those that beheld it. He feared to look into her heart and find their love departed. Instead he watched her face carefully, and though her cheeks were tearstained and her appearance worn with travel, she was suddenly to him radiant beyond description. The light of the sun was thrown from the river to play across her face, and it sparkled on her wet eyes. Then he grasped her hand tightly, even as the movement of their mounts pulled them apart, and continued, "And I need you, here, with me. I ask you, even if you cannot stay for love, that you stay for duty and honor, for if you have forsaken all those virtues then I do not hope to see them again in the sons of men."

And she wondered at his words, and thought that he took her flight as a great betrayal. Then she looked into the distance, and there were the towers of the city, looming ever closer in the bright midday sun. Then she drew a deep breath, for she saw now that he indeed needed her beside him, and she spoke in a clear voice, "I swore at our marriage to cleave to you, and I will not leave you again. I have spoken words before as a girl without understanding, but I say to you now as a woman that I shall never again journey without you. My place shall hereafter always be at your side, wherever you may be."

And he nodded quietly and, squeezing her hand, released it. She saw then that he trusted her, and moreover had spoken for the first time of his need for her in token of that trust. Finduilas wiped her cheeks and straightened in her saddle, hopeful that she might again approach the gulf between them.

Denethor perceived the new peace that lay in her mind, and the truth of her words, and he saw her anxious to amend all errors. She thought of herself as both coward and deserter, and he read that guilt in her, but he did not perceive the high thoughts from which those feelings sprang. She would have been horrified if she could have seen the foul desertion he thought her capable of. He forgave her the crime he thought had birthed her guilt, but he judged her all the more guilty for her ruinous supplication. Denethor could well read the hearts of men, but he knew not always what swayed or pierced those same hearts. The good heart of his wife was laid bare to him; but he, in his sorrow and bitterness, took no measure of the nobility of her mind. He had ridden in the coldness of wrath to find her, but her meekness unmanned him. His love was too great to deny. He could only accept her back, and amend his earlier thought with the kindest words he could summon. If he had been less guarded of his speech he might have broached the topic more plainly and she could have shown him his error. As it was, she could not say to him, 'I am innocent' for he did not ask.

Between them now drew a veil of silence, and they did not speak any more on the ride back. They entered the city as decorous and fitting as ever, and they took up life as before, save that in private they lived in silence and apart, and Finduilas rued this as the price of her folly. Denethor, though he did not admit it, was at first afraid to approach her, afraid to find the love they had shared departed. Later, he held his peace when he saw what he had most feared had come to pass. And he kept his silence still, when, almost nine months later, or perhaps a little less, she gave birth to a second son.


	21. A Great and Terrible Silence

What I Would Have

_Thanks for the many wonderful reviews. I've been trying to avoid the evil Denethor, and I think I still have. All books, all the time- he is supposed to be almost exactly like Aragorn, and in order to get that Numenorean thing down I found myself reading a lot of tales from Numenor for this. I didn't think that he would ever be mislead by the palantir, for they always show the truth, but what people see is changed by their frame of mind, and Saruman had just finished talking to him, the rest is just really bad circumstance. This is, of course, going to get even worse for him. I also used a couple medieval accounts on what stewards actually did, which helped not for his character, but for Finduilas, which had some fitting irony in it. I'm also working on a 'new' Faramir, slightly different but still canonical (yes, he's Denethor's)_

Chapter 21 A Great and Terrible Silence

Denethor brought Finduilas back, and now they both knew she would ever remain. That alone was a burden on his mind and heart, for if he had required her to return he now felt himself all the more answerable for her. Yet he could not bring himself to face up to that responsibility. He walked her to her own quarters, and he brought her to her maid, and when she was safely housed he went to his own room and slept. The next day he did not attend council nor sit with his father in the great hall. He sat in his room and brooded, and indulged a thousand ill-tempered thoughts. Then he repented of those thoughts, and attacked his account books to drown out the quarrels in his mind and heart in a sea of ink and calculations. He hid in his work, which being real enough, was easily achieved. Her eagerness to make amends was rebuffed by his absence, but she did not know why this should be, and she was grieved and puzzled.

Finduilas at first made no demands upon him, resolving now to keep her peace. She did her hair for him and dressed for him each night, and each night slept alone. He went to council but not to dinner, claiming always to have work to do, and as the days passed he drew ever more haggard and worn. He was using the palantir again, for news this time, and he grew ever more skilled at controlling it. Yet his vision was frequently cast aside, and he knew at times that other wills than his could control such objects, and he sought a balance between the elvish orb and the reports of his men. Such nocturnal struggles, coupled with the day, indeed wearied him, and so he found good cause to avoid his wife altogether.

A fortnight after their return a vision had formed unbidden in the palantir, which was, as far as Denethor was concerned, the chief danger of using it. If your thoughts strayed at all the orb followed them to whatever dark corners they had wandered. He had been looking at Ithilien, and wondering what fate should befall it when the hosts of Morder had gathered. Then he had seen a captain. A strong young captain, wearing the royal emblem; for a moment he almost thought he saw a vision of his own youth. But this young man jested with his comrades, and laughed in a way that Denethor had never managed in his entire life. Then the expression on the young man's face shifted into the same look that Finduilas wore at times, and Denethor had understood.

Finduilas had endured the silence and waiting as long as she could. Eventually though, she knew herself to be with child, and then she allowed herself to feel hope again, that she could bear his physical proof of her devotion, and bring him more happiness the way that Boromir did. She came to him that first month late in the evening when he was undressed for bed, and Denethor rose and quickly replaced his tunic. Finduilas wondered at what this would portend. She stood in the door, trembling and radiant, and after a moment she slowly walked across the cold stone floor until she stood before him. Then she placed a hand on his chest, as she had done on their wedding night, and lifted her face to his.

"It is long since I have seen you," she ventured.

Denethor lifted a tender hand to her cheek, and drew his fingers lightly across her lips. She returned the gesture with a kiss, but it drew from him no desire, only sadness. He looked away lest she read the look on his face, and he held her hands in his.

"I am often busy now my beloved," he replied.

His heart, as Finduilas had foreseen and long feared, was beginning to fall under the shadow, yet he looked so pitiably weary that she felt she could ask no more of him. She ran a hand through his now grey hair, and passed her fingers across the new lines in his face, and felt how very tired he was. Her caress seemed to ease him however, for his lips turned in a half smile, and he looked upon her with love and sorrow. Then she remembered the cause for her temerity.

"I am with child," she whispered.

His eyes, dark and reflecting the orange flashes of the fire, did not change, nor did his features, and for a moment she thought he might not have heard her. Then he whispered huskily, "A son."

That made her smile in earnest, strange though his bearing might be. "Are you sure or eager?" She jested, thinking to regain his old humor.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then his eyes gazed on hers, rimmed with sleepless dark circles, reddened with long and tedious hours. "I have seen him," Denethor replied.

Then her face trembled and changed, the forced humor at last succumbing to the chill of the night and his manner. It was the same look the young man in his vision had worn; one who wants so much, but is afraid to ask for the smallest thing. He saw she wanted to know how he had come by his vision, that she wanted to ask him what he had seen, and yet she feared to do so. He did not know that this fear was not for her child's sake but his. But he felt fiercely protective of her now, standing before him in her shift with a single jeweled ribbon in her curls, looking like a child who has awoken from bad dreams.

He ran his hands over her shivering shoulders resolving to quiet her mind, "Do not trouble yourself Finduilas, you must be careful now in your condition." He murmured, "Come, I will cheer you. I have thought of a name."

And he knew not why he said that, for last night a name had come to him, and it brought no joy. It was born of the black hours of the night, and he had squelched the thought as a perversity. Yet now he found himself speaking to his wife in the same double-edged way he dealt with men. But he did not mean to treat her thus, and he felt when he spoke that his lips did not obey his will.

"What is to be his name then?" Finduilas whispered to his chest.

"Faramir. For I was searching for you." He drew back to look at her, but the light in his eyes not desire. It was the look she remembered before he rode to battle and it brought her no joy.

Her brow furrowed, "Faramir, it matches his brother's, but is it not an ill-fated name?"

"Fates change, they are but one path, and a man is free to make his own."

And then she smiled somewhat bitterly, which is something he had never seen her do, but the look vanished, for he kissed her to still her questions, and he was able to lead her back to her quarters. Denethor knew his heart was still in her keeping, and always would be. Yet he had spoken in bitterness when she came to him in love, and the thought wounded him. Too proud to ask her forgiveness he held her for a long time until sleep claimed her. Then he rose and left her chamber. Eventually, grim and weary and unable to find rest, he walked the streets. Those on the night watch fell back without question, for all knew him and none dared to cross him. He walked where he wanted, and ended up outside the walls. Then he ran his hands over the centuries old stone, the stones that had never been breached, and he wondered what fell deeds he would view err the closing of his lifetime. There was little that could be added to the cities defenses, if the time ever came his role would be to direct the field. He looked for a long time, not out to Ithilien and the black land beyond, but up towards the citadel, there underneath fair banners and smooth walls a single window burned with light. His wife was up too, but he had not the strength to go to her.

In the early hours, before dawn woke the city, the people of the countryside walked to the gate for its opening, and bowed low to find their Lord there. He waved off their acknowledgement and folded his cloak about him, and soon went unnoticed by the growing crowd. There were women with faces lined with care and childbirth, children in bright clothes with fresh morning clean faces, men who whistled on their way to another day's labor. For the first time in his life he looked upon them without any scorn, for all their ignorance and foolish behavior, he was touched by the simple faith they kept with each other, and with him. The man who drove his simple mule cart to sell faggots, the women with their handiwork, the sellers of leathers and cured meats. Huntsmen gathered before the wrought mithril gates with fowls that cackled in the dawn, their wives with baskets of eggs. Denethor found his eyes drawn to a young girl of eight summers who smiled at him without front teeth. She stood with her arms filled with flowers and he saw her fingers were cut and scarred from picking and twisting the bunches. But she smiled in the cold dawn without care, and her unshod feet danced in the roadside dust to music coming from a shepherd boy's pipes as he drove an ancient flock to the kitchens. Why that girl should remind him so strongly of his wife he did not know, but his heart filled with love for those people who strayed outside the city walls, love and pity, for they lived on the protection of the Valar alone. And every year passed all the more precariously between the forces of the West and the gathering foes in the East. Yet they put ribbons in their hair, and played merry tunes while they waiting for the opening of the gates and the new day to come.

When Finduilas awoke in the morning she found the candles had burned away in the night, but beside her on the pillow was a bunch of sweet-smelling roses. She ran her finger over the delicate things, feeling their softness like a baby's skin. She wondered why he should bring her such a gift. She had received nothing of the kind since their courtship, but here was no object of interest from far away lands. Simple field flowers from the hills of Gondor, tied with country yarn, a common market purchase. She cherished the little bundle though, and placed it in a water pitcher by her window. But they faded the next night with her hopes, as she spent it alone, and Denethor did not dine with her or Ecthelion, nor did he visit Boromir.

The following weeks had brought other new activities from him. She awoke to find hothouse grown flowers, or oranges near to her bed. Miriel told her that her husband often came to the door when she slept, for she had several times seen him leaving in the dawn. He left her many little presents now.

"Tis the most backward courtship I've ever known a pair to make. If she ended back in her father's house t'would be no cause for wonder. Nor much lamentation for that matter." Miriel explained to Erendis, Boromir's nurse.

Sometimes Finduilas was filled with joy at the sight, for they seemed to speak of happiness returning, and showed that she was now more in his thoughts. At other times the sight of some gift filled her with sorrow and she would give it swiftly to Miriel, or discard it in secret in the rubbish. She wanted her husband, not gifts, however fair they might be. He faded into an air of formality and kindness, inquiries about her health, flowers in the morning, but he himself was gone. One request only he made of her, and that was that she go frequently to the healers, and she knew from them that he also asked many times about her health. The autumn and winter passed in such a manner, and they did not speak nor quarrel, each seemingly waiting for a sign from the other. It was in that time that Finduilas grew weary of waiting, or perhaps the thought of a new child filled her with new life, and she began again to seek to be active and change the world about her.

* * *

The winter passed into an early spring, the snow began to melt, and send little hopeful rivers of water down the mountains. The whole world paused and held its breath, for soon the frost would vanish and the rush of planting begin. It was always a hard time to be Steward, for when the lands went from frozen to muddy to blooming, men were needed to work on their farms; and yet it was also when the roads became once again passable, and the Dark Lord did not wait for men to finish their sowing. Women often now aided in these activities, yet they had their full compliment of work as well, gathering early fruits, caring for stock, and weaving. So it was a busy time for all, yet pleasant, for the promise of the New Year had come, and once again people were gladdened to see it.

Finduilas in particular rejoiced as she sat in her rooms. She was spinning, for it was a suitable and accepted occupation for noble women, and about her many women were likewise engaged. Because it was spring, several plants of high color were collected, and the yarn would be dyed, so about them were drying hanks of blue and yellow and green. Of course there were many, many dark swatches of cloth as well, for the Colors of Gondor were silver and sable. There were also the greens of the ranger's clothes, and these Finduilas particularly enjoyed the making of. They were not as gay and pretty as the other yarns, but they were made of all the browns and greens of the forest. And during the winter months it was enjoyable to create a forest of yarn about her. Most of all, she enjoyed working with the blue, for it was the color of her home, and she missed the sea about her.

The women around her chatted and laughed; they were mainly cottagers from places close to the city. They came once a week or month, and cheerfully counted this time to their duties owed for the land. All of those who worked the fields around Gondor did so for a lord, for land owned also meant the duty to protect it, and so close to the Shadow this was not possible except for those who could also afford to keep and equip men. There were also many new families, for with the loss of Minas Ithil many who had lived in Ithilien had been granted lands about the city. These women rejoiced to come to the tower, for they were able to meet their new neighbors and see old ones from before. They also made a healthy profit gathering herbs in the mountains for such dieing, and they were skillfully culled and applied. There were of course men at market who sold the same things, but they did not grudge the competition, for with more people coming into the city their trades flourished.

It had been Finduilas' idea to make these regular and traditional visits more of an occasion. Instead of having the women to the under stores she threw open the halls for them. For one day a week the statues of kings gazed sternly over broad country women who laughed in their mugs, even as their knitting needles flew. The servants brought simple cakes or ale, in the winter hot wine or cider, and the women were often merry. What had once been a chore required for the land lease became quite festive. It also became a way to spread news and gossip, and sing old songs, and try to promote a son or daughter into a service in the city. There were too many positions open, for the population was ever sadly waning, and the air hummed with hopes and promises. Among the farmer's wives came on occasion the wives of the tradesmen or merchants. These had no such duties, and they worked out of charity, and mainly to conspire with the ladies about them, to trade advice on fashions and household managements, and above all gossip. Of course there were also ladies' maids on their holiday, and sometimes a visiting lady. Some turned their nose up at such meetings, where they would be obliged to sup with those that served, but as time went on they could no longer resist the lively stories, and the meetings became a great success, the gaiety became infectious. All the ladies of Gondor imitated the Steward's wife, of course, but their admiration went beyond her position. Being so young and pretty she was ever the object of those about her, and so a new custom entered Gondor, and bound the people closer to their lords.

From these meetings came also now many more women to work with the healers, wives out of Ithilien or the mountains, who having lived for generations as their own such arts could contrive, and were skillful hands. It had started with the bringing of spices and dyes, and soon the women began to sell remedies as well, and before long the Healing Houses had many eager and skilled workers. This change surprised Ecthelion and even Denethor. The one because he thought it so charmingly clever, the other because it was clever and he had not thought of it. Denethor sent a note to his wife expressing pleasure, and giving account of several good men who were returned to hardihood thanks to the rejuvenated houses. Finduilas found herself in tears at the praise, and she slept with the note under her pillow.

Finduilas had such a cheerful and humble manner that many of the women who now met her were charmed. She was seen as an ideal lady by both the women who idly wove pretty holiday mittens and by the sturdy farm wives who could clothe a regiment in a matter of days. The rumors of her earlier zeal for travel, and aloofness from her own city, were dismissed now as the whims of girlhood. With the coming of a second child many now thought her to be settling down to sober wifehood. Once or twice a stir would go through the room, and Denethor himself would enter. He might pass a word or two with his wife, never about anything more serious than her health, and nod to the other noble ladies, and then take his leave. At those moments Finduilas was so tenderly attentive, and quiet in her bearing, that the women about her fairly buzzed with praise of her sweet graces. They admired her humility very much, provided they were not required to practice it. Of less awe but more merriment was the memorable visit from the Prince of Dol Amroth, who stayed long to jest with the ladies, and his easy manner reminded all of Adrahil, as well as the fact that he was still unwed, and that added as much merriment to his visit as the wine.

Imrahil was less pleased with his sister. It was all he could do not to gape at Denethor, who had aged forty years in two, but he alone seemed to note that the weight of years also now sat upon his sister's shoulders. He did all he could do to cheer her, but he was soon called away to Dol Amroth, for their lives were separate now, and a woman's fate was to be sundered from her father's kin. Besides he now had a fair face calling to him, and thoughts of starting a family of his own.

Denethor watched his wife again grow with child. Her features plumped and relaxed, her eyes grew peaceful and warm. He was glad she was happy, but he hated the sight of the child to come, the constant reminder he felt now of a wrongness committed, a failure of vigilance on his part, and spirit on hers. He knew too that a woman's health was delicate at such times, and he did not trust himself to be around her lest he say something amiss. When she began to gather the other women about her he thought it a calming influence and a good change, and he was even at times able to come and speak with her. He kept these meeting formal, and his heart clenched as tightly as a fist when he did so, but none save his wife could have noticed such things beneath his exterior, ever smooth and calm.

As it was he barely came out of his study or council chambers. Ever since he had used the palantir he had begun to overwork his military. Ithilien could no longer be defended in full, new walls must be built, and new recruits found. He pulled back from the borders and focused on defenses. At the same time he began to prepare for long war and siege. The stores within the walls were no longer enough. He had more now to ask of his people, from the labor of the smallest milkmaid to the old man that must pay more in taxes. He fell back to his work with a passion, relieved that this brought no protest from his wife, and glad that she had found a way to busy herself within the city walls. So he surrounded himself again with maps and numbers and ink covered scrolls. Had the need for vision not been so critical he might have ridden to battle himself, but it had been long since he had done so. The candles smoked and sputtered for many nights as he planned his defenses.

Husband and wife now were kept busy, and they left little time for personal reflection. What had been a habit for Denethor became a way of life, now that Finduilas no longer protested. She in turn was drawn into his tendencies. She had promised to follow him into shadow or light, and she saw it as her duty now to live in this manner. So it was between them that Gondor was prepared for the great War of the Ring. It was the sort of life Denethor had always imagined, and that Finduilas had admired. Had it come about differently they might have rejoiced in the fulfillment of their promise, for their actions now worked in great effect, and in full harmony. Yet they were not in harmony, merely waiting, in suspense rather than peace, and the stillness grew with every silent breakfast, every suppressed smile or sigh. Eventually this silence became usual enough for neither to lament it, but their hearts were chilled.

* * *

In the spring Finduilas entered her labor, and try as Denethor might the bonds of love again reclaimed him. Ecthelion headed a relieved council, the women clucked and fussed, and Denethor waited outside the doors of his quarters. He tried to hold Boromir, but the boy had grown used to playing with the other children and sparring with this grandsire. He could not stay still, and when Denethor placed him on his lap he soon wiggled off. His father swung him absently for a while with one arm, his eyes never leaving the doors beyond, but at length he sent the boy away with his overworked nurse and resumed his vigil outside the doors. Now he paid for months of silence, for each cry that came from her would make him jump from his seat, and then he would resume it, each time in greater agony of mind and heart.

This was no ordinary birth, for the wound Finduilas had sustained now came to life, and it endangered both her and the baby. That Denethor felt full responsibility for, and yet he was unable to mend or aid her. The maids ran in and out anxiously, and the healers had grave faces. As the hours wore away Finduilas began to cry out, and Denethor rose with clenched fists. Then her cries subsided, and he feared, but the voices of the women sounded joyful through the door. It was longer before they opened it, and the nurse stood there with a new bundle in her arms, just as she had five years before.

Denethor walked past the nurse for he only had eyes for his wife, and now that the months of agonized waiting were passed he felt they could begin again. She lay collapsed on the bed, barely conscious, and the maids now were removing large piles of linens and steaming bowls. There was a foul smelling brew that the healer, a nervous looking man, held to her lips, and she drank it without complaint. Denethor wished them gone so that he might climb into bed and hold her, but as it were he was able to clasp her hand, and stroke her cheek. She smiled then so peacefully that his felt almost joyful, and she soon passed into sleep.

Once she was no longer conscious, Denethor became aware of the healer, nervously hovering over his shoulder.

"Well?"

"My lord, I must tell you," the man stammered.

"Then tell me," Denethor replied in irritation.

"She cannot bear again my lord, she almost did not succeed this time."

Denethor took the news without comment, "is that all?"

"Why, yes, my lord"

He waved the man away, but to his great annoyance he stayed in the room. Denethor wanted to be alone with his wife. It was now when she was sleeping that he would see her most often, and say the things to her in the darkness that he could not during the day. He wanted to tell her what he hadn't over the past months, what her growing child had somehow forbidden him from saying. He loved her dearly, and he longed now to unburden his heart to her slumbering form, yet the room seemed still to be full of people.

"What is it?" He finally asked curtly of the maid who stood nearby

"My lord," she faltered, "do you not want to see your son?"

"No, he almost killed his mother." he replied, yet as he spoke duty came back, and his mind resumed its dominion over his tormented heart. The warmth his wife brought to him left. He no longer felt an overwhelming desire to stay in the room with her. Somewhere armies were moving, the world went on and would not stay for his private indulgences. He looked up from the bed and saw about him were several maids. The soiled linens were gone; the smells of blood and toil washed clean. The healer still stood by him, and there, so near he could touch him, was the tiny little bundle the milk nurse now held in her arms.

Then he saw their shocked and fearful faces, and he sighed. Duty as ever came back to him, and he reached out his arms for the child. As the warm little blanket entered his arms he felt his heart again begin to ache, and he swallowed and bid his heart quiet. Then he opened his eyes and looked into clear blue ones, and a great and overwhelming love came crashing through his heart and mind, though he would have denied it if he could. The baby's lips moved slightly and Denethor thought now that for good or ill things would never be as they were. A war was coming onto his land, and a rival' s interests would now ever be present in his house.

"Faramir," he said, handing the baby back.

The women then fluttered with approval, and paid homage to 'his little lordship.' The gesture made Denethor wince. There was little affection in him for this interloper who had all but killed his mother, but the love was already growing, demanding obeisance. He had held him for less than a minute, yet could no longer look on the baby as a mere child. He was the son of Finduilas, dearly brought forth through her toil, and for that reason Faramir would ever have a claim on his heart. Yet already there were many that claimed his heart, and he ever rued that it was an organ of such might, for he valued his mind more, and found one frequently seemed poised to overthrow the other. And now he must undertake yet another charge to vex them both.

But as the women passed the child to and fro it began to make happy gurgles, and he could be no more insensible to that sound than to the horns of his own men. Then he noticed the healer nearby was looking on mournfully. The man he recalled, had a horribly pedantic manner, and no doubt the lineage of that ill-fated name was not lost on him. Then Denethor, his duty to wife and child done, left the room, for he had a country to manage and with it the care of many men's children.

Finduilas spent many weeks doing little more than sleeping, for her pain was great, and the healer mixed potions so that she would not be aware of it. But she drew great comfort from the baby, and obvious pleasure from his presence. This soothed the hearts of her maids, for Denethor was hardly ever in the nursery. He took almost no notice of the child during his visits, instead focusing on his wife. The women reasoned it away by saying he was a man, and they took more interest in children when they were older, but it had not been his way with Boromir, and all remembered that as well.

Finduilas noted with pain how little attention Denethor gave his second son, for it had cost her much of her strength to bear him. She had hoped that Faramir would renew the joy of old between them, yet that hope came to nothing as the days passed. When she lay exhausted from her labor she wept, and the babe curled next to her wept as well.

Then her maid came to her and brought her a soothing drink, and she asked, "Why does he not acknowledge his own son, why should one be received so joyfully and this other seem of no account?"

"Hush," replied Miriel, "he's only a man, my lady, and what would you expect? Birth frights all men, and he was so filled with worry for you that he scarce could talk those first few hours, and for your husband that says much."

Then she left them to sleep, and Finduilas quieted Faramir, and she drew him close and looked upon him. He had blue eyes like a stormy sea that promised to grow into the grey of Boromir and Denethor. She kissed his dark hair and tiny puckered face that already seemed to feature his father. She sighed then at that ill-fated name, and wondered how any man could display such indifference to his own child.

"We must struggle then," she said to the sleeping infant, "against the darkness of these times. I am weak, and you are small, but we will have each other."

Denethor continued to pay nocturnal visits to Finduilas, where he would tell her of his hopes and fears and she would sleep peacefully and blissfully unaware. He changed the visits a little now, for after he had soothed his heart in talking to his sleeping wife he would stop by the nursery to see the infant. Then he would stand with a single candle and look down upon the baby features. He would run his hands over the fine little limbs, noting the slightness of the child compared to Boromir. He would look at the dark hair sprouting in the head, and look at each tiny little toe or chubby finger as they flexed. He would press his face against the gurgling round belly, smelling the milk and urine smell of infants, and watch the candlelight flicker and flame over the sleeping face. Sometimes Faramir's eyes would open and seek his own. Then the child would frown, as though echoing his own fears. He loved the child, that he could not deny, and when his eyes crossed or he yawned Denethor would sigh in love and agony. But he did not cease these nocturnal visits until his wife regained her health and they could no longer go unnoticed. Then he was banished entirely from the rooms by his own mind. He might contemplate each separately, but he could never face the two of them alone in the evening, these two who healed and tore at his heart equally. Battling the will of the Dark Lord was not as hard as it would have been to meet his wife's eyes, if she should ever chance to wake, while he searched his son for signs of Thorongil.


	22. Young and Old

What I Would Have 

_Thank you everyone who reviewed and prods me out of apathy! - Especially 1st timers, those who drop a line every chapter or so, and to all my 40 odd loyal readers who have read the whole thing. I'm honored, really. It does the heart good. Anyhow this, as you might guess, gets sadder. And yes, this fic goes to the end- it's the complete story of Denethor._ _I'm hoping to get up a happy chapter for valentine's day, although work has other designs._

Chapter XXII: Young and Old 

Finduilas regained her strength slowly, and after a time young Faramir was put into his own room so that his mother might have more rest. Yet she soon found that she could hardly rest without him, and she often slept with her baby in her arms. If she slept alone she would wake to his crying in the night and send for him. Finduilas, as she grew more aware, was pained in how little notice Denethor took of young Faramir. She had secretly hoped through the long and tedious months of her pregnancy that they would have another blooming between them, like the one Boromir had brought. The pain she now suffered through without relief would have been endurable if she could but coax a single smile out of Denethor. But he seldom looked on the child, even as it nursed in her arms. Instead he would look upon her, tenderly and gravely, until she felt compelled to affect cheer for his sake.

Faramir grew daily; he began to show a knack for squirming out of his crib and was soon crawling across the floor. Finduilas, too exhausted to puzzle much over her husband, absorbed herself in caring for her baby. She sent the nurses away to fuss over Boromir, and kept her youngest for herself, secretly dreading the day he would be too big to play with his mother. Ecthelion, hoping to raise her spirits while bed-ridden, had given full account of the way that Boromir had fancied himself becoming a squire 'by next midsummer at the latest.' She had smiled at the fancy, but she held Faramir all the tighter, and kissing his sleeping eyes, asked the Valar if he might stay her baby for a little longer. To Denethor alone would she have yielded him, but he displayed none of the greed for the child's attention that he had with Boromir.

She was unaware that the months were slipping past, for lying in bed it was easy to forget that time passed at all. Yet Faramir was already beginning to look like a child, and put babyhood behind. Then she proposed that she should again entertain in the hall, and at the very least should dine with the rest of the family. She caught her husband and maid exchange grave looks, but neither spoke against it. To her surprise Denethor took the full day to escort her down to the main hall. And it was a long journey, for she often needed to pause along the way, feeling grateful for his warm support, and the strong arm that she clung too. They walked slowly down the length of the great hall. The windows were open, and on that long walk she saw the blooming city below, and smelled the sweet breezes of late summer. The shafts of golden light made the dark stones of the passageway seem all the darker, her vision swam, and she was glad Denethor was there to steady her. When they reached the main halls she saw many women had gathered, and they were silent and courteous to her. And Ecthelion rose to welcome her, and congratulated her on her recovery.

Despite the fair words, she looked almost a wraith on Denethor's arm. By the end of the afternoon she was as pale as snow, yet her cheeks were a crimson that belied her ill health, as flush as rose petals, and as soon to fade. Denethor stayed with her all that day, and Faramir was formally presented to the court, a thing that she had previously lacked the strength to do. If there was any blot of unhappiness on that summer day it was in how Denethor kept his eyes on her the whole time, the pain on his face when she needed to pause for breath was worse than any physical pain on her part, and she could not conceal from him anything, for his eyes as ever were dark and clear sighted. But he let her spend the day as she wished, and walked her back to her quarters, where Miriel declared she looked to be regaining her health.

Finduilas thereafter insisted upon rising and doing the duties of a wife about the house. She presided once more over dinners, but frequently found no appetite for her meals. She would have preferred to eat alone in her quarters, for then she might slip the delicate treats that cook tempted her with to an appreciative Boromir, and send back in that way at least a partially clean platter. But she was obliged to sit over feasts, and hide the growing pain and weariness she felt. Her temper as well suffered, for whereas before she might have felt restricted by duty or the wishes of others, she now daily battled with her own body to do the simplest things. Yet her will was stern, and her own pain did not much bother her, and she soon had mastered herself enough to perform the daily functions as lady and mother.

Boromir had continued to lord his presence over the house, and being the favorite of both his father and grandsire, he did what he pleased with supreme confidence. His unquenchable boisterous charm warmed all hearts, and all cherished his young company. Denethor, however, had made it very clear to him that Finduilas was ill, and when Boromir was in their quarters he was subdued to the point of sullen. Once he was allowed out in the morning Finduilas would hear him running and shouting in the courtyard. She felt at moments envy in her soul for simple pleasures such as running out of a door, or shouting.

* * *

Ecthelion stood upon the wall and looked behind him rather than out over the city. There in the Steward's gardens his grandsons trudged through the early snow of winter. Finduilas, warmly bundled, held little Faramir up to the weak winter light, while Boromir ran from tree to tree, throwing snowballs at invisible enemies. The day was cold, colder than Ecthelion had known past winters to be, and he could not stand for long on his own walls. He had little care for the city below him, save as a pleasant memory, but he knew from bitter experience that the pleasures those memories had would not be recalled by a cold walk along the stone streets. He longed for peace and sleep, for the company of old friends long gone to their fate. He longed to speak with the younger men whose fate took them out into the world, the same who didn't have the time for the fancies of old men. He sighed and shrugged. The day was beginning to wear on, and he was required at a council meeting. 

Fresh with the winter winds he examined the faces of the lords and men that made the council of Gondor. Even in the morning light his eyes were blurred, and if he looked only briefly the faces changed into the men he had known, but about him were strangers. Ecthelion ran a hand over his eyes. It had become a habit he thought ruefully, as though the motion could remove the dimming of age and bring back the keen sight of his youth. Ecthelion had ruled over the last generation of men, now gone to their rest, and no change in vision would recall them. Or almost none, he thought, lest there come again a man like Beren- one who could gaze beyond the mortal realm of Middle Earth. The conversation moved beyond him, and it irked him to realize it mattered little. Decisions flowed past him as though he were riding beside the Anduin. He frowned and forced himself to focus- he was reviewing tributes, something he had set Denethor to as a boy, something he had hated since his own childhood. How much more he hated such things now. He wanted to hear of battle, of the feats of the young. He would like to talk to these men about their fathers and uncles. He would like to talk to their fathers for that matter, or of the days he had shared with them. Yet duty, as ever, compelled him to take each instead to task for bales of hay and projected taxes. It was with relief he heard the door warden announce his son, and wordlessly he rose to give him the chair at the head of the table.

* * *

Finduilas listlessly stirred the mash in the bowl. She could have Faramir's nurse called, but she enjoyed spending time with her sons. Or rather her son, for Boromir could not even be kept in the rooms any more than the tide could be ordered from flowing. Even in the most miserable weather he would coax his nurse to the courtyard, and if not for the walls she fancied he would make the river at least once every day. She should like to go the river herself. Finduilas sighed and stirred the innocuous porridge, more for the sake of having something to do, for she was all but ordered by the healers to keep to her rooms, and dwelling on it made her feel all the worse. Denethor would often send Boromir in bearing a present for Finduilas, oranges or figs, once a necklace of dwarven make; tokens of the various merchant caravans that changed with the weeks and seasons. She accepted these gifts still, but it pained her to see the chair at Ecthelion's right side was empty more often than not. The lords of the country also now came to Denethor directly, and they took much council together. The land of Gondor seemed to recede from the little family, and though they occupied the palace of its capital they might as well have lived in some remote village, for all they saw of the lords and captains. 

A small whimper from Faramir broke her thoughts. She smiled and held out the spoon coaxingly, but his eyes were focused instead on the doorway. He refused anymore of his lunch until at last she rang for the nurse, and feeling as though something were amiss, paced the hall outside.

Ecthelion, his tired bones aching in the heat, heard his servant announce the lady, but it took him long to behold her, for the flames had darkened his vision. He thought of the long life of Numenor somewhat grimly then, for he had not been entirely spared from the ravages of age. There was a time he could still recall when he could hear another's footsteps long before they reached his door, or when he would have been on his feet the moment a lady entered the room. Now he sat in a chair, an old man past deeds and gallantry, as cold and spent as a forest in winter. She though, seemed to flicker and sway as the flames themselves.

Finduilas knew naught what to say, for Ecthelion had always had the majesty and grace of the ruling steward, and she could perceive at times where her husband learned his manners, for their courtesy was often as restrained and polite as two distant strangers. Yet in Ecthelion this seemed in part to be the evils of age working upon an old man, whereas this coldness was inseparable from Denethor, and had been a part of him since his earliest youth. Yet she had never sought out her father-in-law in his apartments, with no better reason than an unquiet mind. But he sat as though expecting a visit, and she felt her heart ache when she thought of how many hopeful nights he must sit thus, and nobody come. She cast about in her mind for an excuse when he smiled, and with all the insight that his son possessed, motioned for her to sit beside him and spoke as though she had already unburdened her innermost thoughts to him.

"I understand daughter, what it is to sit in idleness, to feel devoid of purpose," he said quietly as she sat, offering her a blanket from a pile by his chair. "It is the most common part of a soldier, truth be told, but beyond that I find myself here in old age, and the world passes me by." He paused and glanced over at her, "and yet I think such lonely thoughts ill-suit your youth."

Finduilas gave a little laugh like a gasp, "and should the young not be lonely?"

Ecthelion smiled softly, "no, for the young usually have someone to talk to."

And Finduilas, unused to company beyond her maids and infants replied unthinkingly, "and if I did I should be talking to him instead of walking the halls..." then, hearing herself, she paused aghast.

But Ecthelion's eyes twinkled in the firelight and for a moment she saw him as he must have looked in his youth, "and this old man is no longer to be sought out by the young ladies, would you say?"

"Oh no!" Finduilas protested, "it's just that my husband is so often busy…" and her voice faded as the mirth left her face.

Ecthelion was silent for a moment, then he spoke in the measured tone of one for who a subject is old and well rehearsed, "Denethor's fate was wrought long ago, when we, his mother and I, both sought to prepare him to be steward of Gondor and forgot he was ever our son."

And Finduilas raised her head astonished, "But he is! He reveres you, and he loves us. Underneath it all, he is still my husband and your son."

Ecthelion shook his head, "You would know his heart best, you are the keeper of it. Yet he seldom seems to look on where he has bestowed that object. A man needs a wife to care for him, and to comfort him; but if he seeks for neither comfort nor care, then I pity your lot."

"He needs a wife to have faith in him," Finduilas replied somewhat heatedly in her hurry to defend her husband, "he does as is best. He cannot be forever in our quarters."

"And to say 'at times he should be' would prove him wrong?" Ecthelion asked, "But he is wrong at times daughter, and it wouldn't hurt him to know it."

"Oh, but it does, I intend never to grieve him. He needs some peace, since he is always laboring for Gondor, and he needs it far more than I. I do so little. Indeed now all I have is peace, and I cannot relish such sloth. Enforced rest seems to me now more evil than forced labor, had I a choice I would labor as before."

"But you are ill now, whether you know it or not, and I could not tell the lord of Dol Amroth we have treated you thus. You say you cannot stay in peace, so now as steward I will give you a duty, go and visit your brother. And as a father I will give you some advice, your husband is a man, not a Vala, and you must see that, the sooner the better for both your sakes. You must tell him when he errs."

And she refused and said, "he has asked this of me, that I abide here with him. It is the only thing he has ever asked of me, how can I thus fail?"

"It seems one of you must, and of the two I would say he is the one failing."

The criticism made Finduilas protest, but Ecthelion raised a hand to still her, and he was silent for a long while, and as he sat by the fire it seemed that he put aside arguments and began to look very old, yet peaceful, and she began to wonder if she might not call his servant. At length Ecthelion sighed and spoke again, and as before she got the sense that he had thought long upon the words he said to her.

"When I was a young man I was very much like your Boromir. I enjoyed riding and climbing and all other pursuits of body. I have outlived that now, those things that gave me such joy. I can no longer even sit horse. I used to love the fall, the brisk weather, I would go out riding... Then I became steward, and I had the care of the entire world upon me, and I am weary now at last, long weary of that load. I shared it for a long time with my wife, and she was a great help to me, and I am sorry to say I gave much of it to my son. I am old now, and I can see that was wrong, to do so."

"It seems more than any one man can bear, but he will not share this work with me." Finduilas added quietly.

"Nor should he! I mean only that he has turned from all other men, and his father at last. He keeps no counsel but his own, and it will work him ill. I have seen what you have done for him, and before I was gladdened by it. No, there is something in my son that is removed from me. He is unlike other men, and will become more so, I fear, ere the end. I have feared for him all my life, though perhaps you do not know it, not for any evil that might befall him, but for what he might do himself, purposing only good. I have heard other men say he is stern as steel, as Mithril even." Ecthelion looked upon his withered old hands, the veins prominent in the late afternoon light, the calluses worn away to softness. "He may very well be, for even now he ages, but not in the way of other men."

And his words troubled her, and she dropped her head, and seeing this he continued, "But, daughter do not misunderstand my intentions; I speak only as a worried father, not for his sake, but for yours and for the sake of your son."

And Finduilas looked up, "You have seen him then, with Faramir."

"I have seen Faramir. To look upon him is to see Denethor as a boy, I never saw a child reflect his father so clearly, even in infancy." Then Ecthelion gave a rustling laugh, like leaves over stone. "Even now, I told you he reflects. _Mir_. The both of them, jewels is it? Jewels. In our olden days to be _elven_ was to be valued, but Denethor never cared for such things."

He fell silent, head bowed, and Finduilas saw then that his eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

"Sons are not jewels or steel. I have told you this today for your son's sake. You might smash yourself to pieces against Denethor, and he will grieve. He will grieve, but he can not break. But Faramir, for his sake, for both of yours, do not let him grow to be like his father in this. I have a son stern as steel, and his mind is like a jewel. And I have prayed to all the Valar that he might instead have a heart."

And with those words he seemed to grow terribly weary and his head tilted forward, and he shielded his eyes from the fire. There seemed that night to be a breath of autumn upon the air, and both lady and steward were suddenly gripped with chill. Ecthelion looked across at the shivering lady.

"I will say farewell, daughter. I had long thought why I should live as long as I have, for it seemed to me to be beyond purpose. I have cherished the time I had, I bid you do the same. But I am tired now, and hope to rest at long last. Perhaps this was my purpose, to make amends for past mistakes by counseling you."

At his words Finduilas rose and she kissed his cheek, bidding him farewell. Reading her intention, he called to her at the door of the chamber.

"Nay do not seek him tonight, I will send a servant. Remember what I told you, and go to your son. My own son's fate was forged long ago. My life has been, to my shame, both kind and peaceful, though you yourself know that is not always what we wish or seek. But now I wish to rest, and I seek peace, and I know in my heart that the Valar tonight will let me find it, and so fare you well."

* * *

Denethor was bending his mind upon South Ithilien, but something kept diverting his will. He needed very much to see the road, and now he bent his will upon the glass, which seemed mockingly to grow dimmer or more reflective as he strove to make out what was in its depths. He stood thus for many hours, heedless of the day passing, and the night growing old. The candles on the table went out. His muscles ached from tension, his eyes watered and stung. He felt his heart race, as the blood pounded in his ears. Then he realized it was not his ears, there was a knocking on his door. In irritation he unlatched the heavy oak and opened the door a crack. He recognized his father's servant Anborn, his face stiff with dried tears, and features weary. He bowed and spoke softly into the gloom of the hall, "My lord, your father calls you." 

"At this hour?" Denethor questioned.

"There will be no later hour, my lord." The man replied.

For a moment Denethor was speechless, he had not realized his father was unwell. He had been striving all day to see a road of many leagues distance, while his own father prepared to die in the next room. He quickly threw a cloth over the stone, and locked the door behind him. Following the swift pace of the servant, he entered his father's chamber.

It had been a year since he had entered this room to see his father in private, and he suddenly remembered playing there as a boy, how his mother had held him. He remembered practicing fencing on the balcony, how his father had taken the time to play soldiers with him on the dark wood floor. The kindness of that gesture now weighed on his thoughts, and for a moment he saw his father as a man instead of kin or steward. Then his gaze fell on the giant man of his youth, now a frail and wasted form under the piled blankets. His face was as wrinkled as the sheets and almost as white. Denethor walked close to the figure that appeared to be sleeping, and after a moment's hesitation he took his hand. The skin was dry and gave way to the touch, and the flesh was cold, colder than stone. He had not held his father's hand since he was a child, and a wave of regret rose in his throat. Yet no words came, either of comfort or of regret. Then it occurred to him that this was an important occasion. Denethor needed to call the household servants, and bring in his sons to say goodbye. He began to withdraw his hand, when his father's fingers tightened. Ecthelion very slowly opened his bloodshot eyes.

"I have already seen to the preparations, and made my farewells." He managed in a whisper.

Denethor frowned, "Father, I would have spared you that."

"I have done my duty, never fear. All is ready."

Denethor nodded.

"It is a great relief to me, to put down this burden. I have always hated ruling."

Denethor looked down at his father, surprised.

"And yet it would have made no difference, whether I hated or loved. I did my duty. Few of us have the luxury to act as we choose."

Denethor nodded, privately thinking that his father's wits may have already left him. As though he could hear the thought, Ecthelion's chapped lips broke apart into a half smile, though the lips were twisted in a grimace of pain. "Tell me now son, if you could choose, what life would you have?"

Denethor, seeing his father was in pain, cast his eyes about the room for anything the healers might have left to ease his father with. He replied off-hand, "What must be, will be. I have never thought of things other than what they were." Ecthelion nodded at this, but he seemed not to be listening, as though the reply did not matter, or rather it was as if he already knew what the reply would be.

"In my youth I always dreamt I would die a glorious death in battle." Ecthelion continued between labored breaths. Denethor looked about for a servant, wondering if he should call aloud. The old steward made a groaning noise, "That will never be, it is not given to us to order our own ends. To be thus, dying now of age, seems to be the hardest fate of all." His voice sank to a whisper, "almost as bad as sitting in hours of counsel when you wish to be riding."

Denethor began to slide his hand from his father's grasp, for it seemed best to find a servant quickly. Ecthelion cried out and grabbed his son's hand, and Denethor stood, torn between the counsel of his heart and mind, knowing he needed to call for aid, unwilling to miss what might be his father's last words.

With a choking sound Ecthelion opened his eyes and spoke again, "My eyes begin to fail me, and soon will I sleep in Rath Dinen. I hope to see her again; I have missed her dearly. We used to go riding together you know. We used to talk." There was a pause as Ecthelion swallowed, from drying and spotted eyes a few tears managed to form, and rolled down the wrinkles of his face. "Before the lies of Melkor we called this a gift, and a gift it remains. A gift, my son. My children have washed clean the darkness of fear, for my legacy continues in this world."

Ecthelion then sighed and his face grew sterner, the light returning to his eyes. The grip on Denethor's hand grew stronger, firmer. His father's eyes upon him were urgent and stern. Ecthelion's voice was deep and clear,

"Keep well your family, Denethor, and be merciful: even to thyself- most of all to thyself. Love is not a weakness, Steward of Gondor."

So it was on a cold day in 2984, that Denethor II, son of Ecthelion, sat in the black wooden chair of his forefathers for the first time. Then he knelt before the throne and swore allegiance to a king who was not there, before a city that was, and rose the last ruling steward of Gondor.


	23. A Day in Late Summer

_Thanks for all the feedback everyone. This grew beyond what I intended. I suppose it should be two chapters, but I agree the fic has been a little down and I wanted a high note. If the timing seems awkward it's because I'm trying to stay with the timeline provided by Tolkien, so the years between one event and another often need to be explained._

What I Would Have

Chapter 23: A Day in Late Summer

Imrahil, who like all of Gondor's Lords had attended the funeral and sworn allegiance to the new steward, soon sought out his sister in private. They had not seen each other for several years, and it seemed to his eyes she had dimmed and diminished in a frightening way, and was worse rather than better. But when he suggested that she come with the boys to visit Dol Amroth she refused and plead her ill health. When he pressed further she only smiled softly and looked down at Faramir nestled in her lap.

"It would displease Denethor, and he has much to think on."

"He thinks just as well without you, indeed he seems to prefer thinking alone, so I'm sure he would not be displeased if you should come back with me for a stay. Come, visit and be with friends, and return to him well and merry as old."

"It would distract him to have me gone, he worries about my journeying abroad. In fact, he thinks it safer for me to stay here, and I could never risk the boys."

Imrahil shook his head in puzzlement but pressed her no further, "I had heard you did much good with the healing wards and improvements on the estates. "

"I have my little projects," replied Finduilas "and these I do on my own, without word from him. He no longer shares his counsel, and I do not know any longer what policy he wishes me to pursue."

"Policy!" Imrahil snorted, "Enjoy yourself, grow happy and strong, and speak with whom you wish, I'm sure you have good leave. Think not on policy or duty beyond what suits a lady."

"But how can you say so when he suffers under it," Finduilas protested.

"Suffers! Thrives rather, it is his element."

"Then it must be mine as well."

Imrahil groaned, "I can well see what you two find in each other, you grow as stubborn and enigmatic as he."

"I cannot order about my health, brother, and for that reason you must make excuse to your wife, and excuse me as well, I shall not go beyond sight of Minas Tirith for some time."

"I shall tell her you grow as stubborn and unpleasant as your husband, and we shall be more merry without you."

And he made her smile then, but he could not make her laugh, and eventually the hour came where he had to return to his own house. But when he had quit the room all the loneliness of her life came over Finduilas again. Without the easy and happy teasing of her brother the room was all the more cold and dark. She wondered anew what she had done amiss, that she should create such an unhappy home. She scarcely noticed when little Faramir awoke and wrapped his arms around the neck of his rigid and weeping mother.

* * *

Denethor maintained as steward his frosty and aloof attitude towards his kin and his council. He knew well that people were disturbed by his lack of interest in ordinary pleasures, but he used this to his advantage. For if men thought him sterner than stone he got his way more within the council chambers. Men spoke in disapproval of his polices, for since he now knew their necessity he did not move with the deft softness that had marked the policies of his youth. He forgot at times that other men were ignorant of the knowledge he held, and his demands seemed outlandish. There was neither man nor woman that he did not need to prepare for a danger they could not see, and all about viewed him as a taskmaster, or a grim lord. But none could withstand or gainsay him, and he left himself without peer or friend. At times, the frustrations of his life almost drove him witless, and he feared to be around Finduilas lest it would be then that whatever bitter thoughts he harbored should come out. He missed his wife at those moments, when all about him was cheerless and diffident. Yet he no longer spoke to her of his deeds, and she, therefore, could neither praise nor question. He had not known before how much he had relied on both.

Finduilas longed for his company as well, and even when he did make a rare appearance at breakfast or dinner, his mind was often pursuing foes over the leagues and not with his little family. If she had the power now to break the silence about her, to confront her husband as Ecthelion had once battled with the will of his son, then they might have reached an understanding. But her firmness was for other matters, and she could no more withstand the force of Denethor's will than she could conceive of opposing it. She was soft and yielding, and he, returning from a savage counsel, often in turn took this as a silent condemnation that suggested self-sacrifice and sullenness. He felt Finduilas' unhappiness and with the self-absorption of love felt himself the sole author of her disappointment. He, knowing her terror of the shadow, could not bring himself to tell her of the darkness surging about them, and he feared she would gainsay him as others did.

Lacking his vision, the other nobles murmured in displeasure, for they had grown complacent, and had themselves received no signs of coming war. They imagined Mordor not as a constant foe but a nuisance, they imagined their lands to be safe and removed, a peaceful retreat, and an outright assault had not come to Gondor for many lives of men.

* * *

The years passed, and grew routine. Denethor pressed for a greater military like one possessed, but almost none could fathom why. Yet he turned even that to an advantage, ridiculing that same ignorance, rendering questioning from his lords foolish in advance. The sacrifices he asked of them were not of the magnitude of the ones he made, and this was common knowledge. And men were in awe of him, that he should keep his house thus. He worked harder for himself than he had for his father, and the feasts and parties of bygone years soon faded from common memory. As the ruling house grew ever grimmer, men began to think there was truth behind Denethor's warning of the coming war.

In one way alone was he openly opposed by the lords of Gondor. He had insisted that the borders be withdrawn and many outposts regrouped defensively. It shocked even the Lord of Dol Amroth when the order came to abandon the fort where he had fought his first battle long ago. 'From what enemy do we fly?' he responded in a letter, 'and so quickly yield what in our youth was hard won?' Yet Denethor made no reply to this challenge, he merely ordered the men from the garrison. Without the supply the garrison brought and its protection, the town moved on in a few years. Before a season had passed, the sands swept away what had been, covering homes and graves alike in a sea of dust. Meanwhile new walls were crossing the fair fields of Gondor, new-quarried stones scarred the green fields, and soldiers marched before the wondering faces of the peasants as they threshed the falls' bounty. Those of noble blood now sent out orders for an increased draft, only there was seldom now service abroad, men patrolled the autumn gold forests of Ithilien and rode the plains of Anorien, leaving hoof prints in the snow that were covered with new paved roads in the spring. The next summer brought a great reek to the city as several new smithies were commissioned, and through it all Denethor glowered at an unseen enemy.

* * *

Denethor poured over old maps from the days of the kings. Earlier that evening he had used the Palantir. He was getting better at it; often he could view what he wanted clearly, without paying the terrible price he had done before. He knew now where a column of orcs would advance. He knew many things from the palantir. He knew that Dol Amroth had acted on his plans for a complete company of knights. He knew which of his men were afraid in battle. He knew a worthless man in the second company of Anorien's scouts had stolen provender. He learned many things, yet even as he became more familiar with the stone he realized most were things he already knew. No man needed an elvish stone to spot a coward. And the stone only gave glimpses. He had, while checking along the wall for any clandestine incursions from the borders, seen such a vision. He beheld a man, a lieutenant, who looked like a boy about to wet his pants. The man had started at some noise in the night, and the moving shadows among the rocks plainly drained the color from his face. Eyes wide, he had practically stumbled while drawing his sword. Should it count more, Denethor wondered as he gazed into the glowing orb, that the coward whose hands shook at noises in the wood still managed to hold his post? The man, who made a yearly report to the Steward, was rather inaptly named Hurin, and at that moment he looked worse than any green recruit. The moonlight fell on him, the mountain breeze sent stones scurrying and flying like dark creatures. The man had tears in his eyes. Here was the same sight Denethor might behold if he cared to view any of Gondor's soldiers when they thought themselves alone, staring at the blackness with trembling hands, or behind their helm's visors when faced with a sudden sortie of orcs. Yet cowardly Hurin had held that post for over twenty years, and every night he would walk his patrol without fail. He walked over the black mountain rocks on shaking knees, and yet he walked. That was the riddle, the pride, which Denethor felt in his men. And if the farmer labored through the autumn frosts, and the soldier walked his post and died for it, how then could he yield to weariness or discomfort when no more was required of him than study and council? Yet it did weary him, and the hours he spent in council where not spent talking of what he would, nor did he spend them talking with those he loved best.

Denethor leaned back against his chair, casually surveying the dark orb, resting on its ancient platform. The palantir had shown him that Imrahil had expanded his military, yet he also refused to scrap his docks at Tolfalas as Denethor had urged. He had known at the time that Imrahil would not do so, for they were Adrahil's docks. What was the use of such costly visions if he knew the truth before he beheld it? The stone could show him enemy troop movements, and hadn't he already known that Gondor alone bore the chief hatred of the enemies of the West? He had seen the growing might of Orthanc, yet was it a growing friend or a plotting foe? Often when he needed to know something the stone was of no help at all.

These musing had taken many evenings, and he did not find it so easy to give up the stone entirely. He often found himself wanting to check on his interests, to make sure. Sometimes he found he could not sleep, that he needed to use the stone before he could rest. A new uncertainty entered his thoughts at times, a desire to check with the visions before issuing a command he used to give with other surety. These things disturbed him, for the will that drove men into battle was his alone. A weak ruler made a weak country. All the preparation in the world would not hold off Mordor should he ever fail in his will.

Denethor at length turned his back on the stone, and worked as of old in the lower chamber, which for so many years was his study. There came a night when he looked down at the maps spread before him on the oaken table. Many were ones he had used since he was scarcely older than Boromir. He looked at the faded lines of rivers and mountains, so tiny and insignificant on paper. The yellowed parchment that was soft with age and use. Outposts marked in red that, like blood, had dulled to brown over the years. The wills and tools of men, crumbling paper to be measured against the flawless round jewel, and yet both were useless to a man without wit to use them. He glanced at the stack of papers, the ink still glistening in the candlelight, and knew all the plans of the world were worthless without the will to drive them. And for all of Gondor he alone held those plans and saw them to completion. He ran a hand over the silky map. It was a frail thing indeed compared to that flawless crystal. A thought came to his mind, a tale out of the first age, the scornful words of an Elvish king, "Unhappy men! Children of brief summers!" It was true, the rock from the Eldar time surely was unflawed as the day of its making. The map of the kings was all but faded to nothing. Yet he would make a new map, he alone could make a new map, and better. That was the might of men that he would pit against the arrogant dark magic. He looked at the setting sun that turned the mountaintops golden. Soon, he thought, he would have Boromir in his study, and show him how to chart the lands he would one day protect.

* * *

Time went by, and Boromir continued to grow like a weed, as robust as any family of Gondor could hope. Boromir turned into a large boy, constantly active and loud, yet he was kind hearted, and if he should give his nurse a headache playing his horn he would slip into the garden and pick her some flowers to make up for it, or kiss her upon her forehead. He was the favorite of all, and if he did not have such a strange preference for his father might have become fair spoiled on the amount of sweets the cooks slipped him, or the toys made for him by various members of the house. He had been lonely after the death of his grandsire, but Faramir was soon recruited to fill the office of playmate. So almost before he could walk little Faramir ended up as squire while his brother scouted the cook's gardens for orcs, or seated amongst the Haradrim with a tattered cloth mumakil, whilst Boromir led the soldiers of Gondor to victory.

Compared to his brother Faramir seemed constantly overshadowed. He was a quiet child, and somewhat slight. The nurses called him 'sweet' but they did not dote on him the way they fussed over his brother. He had a way of looking at people, even before he could talk, that reminded many of his father. Wisdom beyond children was in his eyes, and he often looked so closely at the servants that he frightened them, and they avoided him. He had a way of responding to what people said, he could sense a reprimand in a person's voice despite their choice of words, and then he would seek his mother; or he would somehow grasp a mockery in his nurse's voice when they played games and he would stop playing and look fixedly upon her until she would redden.

Gilraen, his nurse, was somewhat displeased with her charge, being neither the heir or as she put it, "something of a changeling that one. That Boromir though, there's a great boy to be proud of, and a gallant lad the way he teases his nurse to smiles."

And Boromir's nurse, sympathizing and proud of her charge, nonetheless cast in her mind for a complement for the Steward's second child, "He's a lovely boy though, even if those pretty eyes of Faramir's would have better suited a maid."

Gilraen pursed her lips, "I can't abide them, that an infant could make one shamed in speech – of course that's the father in him."

Then Miriel entered and chided their loose speech, but knowing it would amuse her mistress gave a more charitable account of the proceedings to Finduilas later. Finduilas, though she loved both her sons, was pleased that she could have borne a son so like to Denethor. Of course, that son was still in his infancy. Finduilas had pondered Ecthelion's words of warning, and at first she had fretted over Faramir, especially when he at times would pull away from his nurse, or would frown in the manner of her father. But she soon saw that, of all people, Boromir was most apt at shaking his brother's cold manner, and she had to admit, with a gently reproving smile, that she didn't particularly care for Faramir's nurse either. Besides, the boy had such a love of tales, especially of the elves, that she saw none of the pride or worldliness of her husband in him. In fact, he loved the same tales she had in childhood, and enjoyed many of the same amusements. Finduilas could be assured of a quiet evening simply by taking Faramir in her arms and singing to him, or reading to him one of the old nursery rhymes. He would lie in her arms perfectly still, listening as she spoke, until the very end of the story, and only then would he close his eyes and fall asleep upon her chest, sucking a thumb.

* * *

But even as she fell into a comfortable matronly routine, cloistered as it were from the world, her boys were growing older. It was a rude awakening one morning, when Denethor tarried longer than usual over his duties and eventually proposed that Boromir accompany him that day. Boromir had swelled with newfound importance and Finduilas gave smiling consent, both at his eagerness and at her husband's desire for his company, but when they had gone from the room to attend to their manly business she was left looking across the table and empty plates at Faramir. His lips were trembling at being so rudely deprived of his playmate by the father he silently and vainly worshipped. A day of high adventure at his brother's side was suddenly and cruelly withdrawn, and the unfairness weighed heavily upon him. She was struck with pity, for she well knew the sting of exclusion, but she had no balm for his grief save that in a few years he too would leave her side and enter into a world that refused her company. But years in the future were no comfort to a five year old, and her quiet musing seemed to feed his poor mood, for he tipped his milk cup and scowled. Finduilas then smiled and proposed they go to the garden, adding as a special treat, "Come, I will tell you a pretty story of Numenor, and the days of Elendil."

So the two of them went into the garden, which was blooming in late summer, and she showed him how to aid her in tending the beds. As she went about the task, she told him how such practices, on a larger scale, fed the men of Gondor, and she reminded him what each plant was purposed for as they worked. And as the noon hour approached they rested from their labors in the sunshine and she told him her story, and found herself remembering learning it from her nurse.

And she sang to Faramir a fair song from the dawn of men, older even than their race, before Numenor sank, before it had been risen; a song from when the world was still young, and men as unspotted as the child in her lap.

"_Man tare antava nin iluvatar, iluvatar, enyare tar i tyel ire Anarinya qeluva_?"

(What will Iluvatar, O Iluvatar, give me in that day beyond the end, when my sun fails?)

Boromir meanwhile walked down the halls beside his father. They were the same halls he ran through daily, and yet they assumed a new importance now. He wanted to take his father's hand, for he was nervous, but he also wanted desperately to earn the mantle of adulthood his father had so suddenly thrust upon his shoulders. They did not go to the great hall as he had thought, but instead up to his father's study. The study was where no one was allowed, and his father alone held the key. That so many mysterious and imposing strictures would be broken all at once, on such a previously ordinary day, left Boromir feeling a bit giddy, as though he was being held upside down; and the casual air of his father added to a rising hysteria, bordering on panic as they approached the dark oak door.

Denethor pushed back the door, and Boromir struggled to keep his disappointment hidden, for behind that mysterious portal lay only a large table and many, many papers. He had in his boy's mind fashioned something between a battlefield and a dragon horde, never in his dreams did the work of his father involve so many dim candles, like the clerk's street or the account master's workshop. About him were the same dark stones as in their quarters, but grimmer, for here there were no hangings, and there was not even a suit of glittering armor like his father had in his chambers. His father of course noticed immediately, but he smiled a grim smile and explained, "This is the work of men, it is duty and seldom pleasant. Yet all that we hold dear is protected by such labor."

And Boromir nodded solemnly. Then Denethor pushed a large chair over to the desk and lifted Boromir upon it so that they were nearly level. He spread a map that smelled of old wax and dust on top of the other papers.

"I will show you how we protect the roads in the passes, and then you shall plan an ambush, for a good captain understands not only his own movements but that of his rivals."

Boromir poured over the maps with his father, and his heart sank, for he understood not a single line on it. Worse still were the sheet of numbers beside, each one representing horses and men and places and times, yet he understood not why they moved nor how they matched each other. His father meanwhile grew tighter and deeper in voice, as though Boromir' s comprehension was a question of tone. Finally, Denethor stood back and waited for Boromir to plan the next move of the imaginary campaign.

Boromir stood long, bent over the desk while his cheeks became flushed. Perhaps now, he thought, he was behaving as the men did who his father occasionally mentioned to mother, the ones who did not see what he wanted. He concentrated on the ink lines a hard as he could and tried to remember what he had been told. His eyes grew hot, but he told himself that only babies cried. He wanted desperately to please his father, but the task was beyond him. The lines of ink were not transmuted into river and woods for him, the numbers on the sheet were numbers, and could not become men.

Denethor watched his son as the long moments passed, and it became clear he had no desire or skill with the papers before him. Boromir brushed the hair back from his eyes and stole a longing glance out the window. What had attracted Denethor in his youth was not something to please his son, and he felt a moment of despair as a friend will who finds his fellows do not relish the same amusement or jest. But Denethor's unhappiness was balanced by the determined scowl that was set on Boromir's childish features. His glance out the window spoke plain as words of a world of mud and secrets awaiting him, and green woods beyond with their lure of childhood mysteries. Yet, in obeisance to his father, he clenched his fist and bent all the more resolutely over the map.

Meanwhile, the sweet sad voice of Finduilas sang through the midmorning sun, while the forges and smithy were silent, and many took their bread. Denethor, listening, was at first moved merely by her voice, still sweet and pure with youth. Then he hearkened the words and he thought of the long loves of men, filled more with darkness than light, and ever mindful that they should pass on and leave the world they labored in and for. It seemed a hard fate then, and as he watched Boromir struggle so manfully to make him happy, he thought of how many nights Finduilas, still young and lovely, must spend alone.

Upon the table the seal of the house of Mardil glittered in a shard of sun. Denethor turned and looked out the casement at the bright world and city below. He was now its lord, and the ruler of Gondor. Could he not even order his own afternoons? Must he always sink into unhappy duty and make his small family languish as well? He turned from the over bright day and looked closely at Boromir as he labored in the murky room. Still a child, but there were marks of coming adulthood: his cheeks were less round, his eyes now were knowing, the mind behind them thinking its own thoughts. Then Denethor moved with sudden resolve and caught Boromir by the arm. Still holding young Boromir, silent with surprise, he locked the door to his study, and set out at a fast pace for the garden.

Finduilas, in the middle of her song, faltered at the sight of him, and Miriel, who had been resting on the grass, sprang to her feet. Finduilas immediately noted a strange look upon her husband's face, but her mother's heart turned to her son, "Has Boromir displeased you? Was there an accident?" She managed in a rush, rising anxiously to reclaim her child.

Denethor released his son but kept a hand on his shoulder. He blinked a little sheepishly in the light, for it was a long time since he had stood in the noon sun.

"Nay, all is well; we have been learning to read maps, and yet I thought," he hesitated, and continued with a quiet smile, "I thought we might go for a ride."

Finduilas sank down again helplessly in shock. At the sight of her astonishment, Denethor laughed, but Boromir, his new dignity forgotten, began to hop and pull upon his hand, "Oh yes, father, please!" he cried, "Let's go to the river!"

Faramir, happy because his brother was happy, began to laugh as well, but his nurse caught him up and exclaimed, "surely he is too young, my lady, he will tire."

Miriel at that moment came forward, "For that matter it would be too much for you, my lady, and you cannot carry the boy all the way to the stables."

Yet at their words Denethor looked so much like his sons, his lips on the verge of the same crestfallen pout that Finduilas began to laugh. "Indeed," she exclaimed, between giggles, "I should never make it, and Faramir is too little…"

Yet in the middle of her protest Denethor stepped forward. Something in his heart began to leap and pound. A flood of joy, as though once bidden he could no longer contain it, swept over him as mighty as the spring Anduin; and for once in his life he welcomed the loss of control.

"You deem it too far then to walk?" he questioned softly, yet his eyes were shining as brightly as the clear sunlight.

And that look made Finduilas blush and she shook her head quietly in answer. Yet even as she stepped back with demure refusal he stepped forward and swept her into his arms. At this action, Boromir shouted in joy, but his nurse shrieked and the guard ran in from the hall at the sudden noise, and they too stood amazed.

Finduilas slapped at his shoulder and cried, "Now the watch will be raised, and people will talk, for the love of Hurin put me down!"

And Denethor grinned wide in a way he had never been seen to since childhood. "What of them? I will order them back to their business. Am I not the steward?"

"I doubt you could be my husband!" Finduilas shot back, her cheeks now crimson, "have you taken leave of your senses?"

Denethor leaned closer to her sparking eyes and flaming cheeks, and he kissed her deeply before he replied, "only of my cares."

When Denethor looked up with difficulty from her shining eyes, he observed the audience they had gathered and he scowled. At that glare the guards, bowing, fled the garden; the nurses as well fell silent, for even in his joy he was steward. Yet Finduilas could read the mirth behind that mock scowl and her own heart sang in answer. Then Denethor shifted his wife in his arms, with a free hand caught up Faramir, and placed him on his shoulders. Boromir, delirious with joy at the sudden reprieve and change in the day's affairs, began to pull on his father's arm in the direction of the stables. Finduilas laughed softly with embarrassment and joy, and some surprise at the vigor and strength that her husband still had. Although they were too young to understand the sudden fire that sparked in their parent's eyes, Faramir and Boromir exchanged delighted smiles, for seldom were their parents happy together, and they treasured the sight above all else.

* * *

So on that fine summer day they rode out through the city as a family. And many of its people marveled to behold them and the light about them. Messengers were sent away with the astonishing news that the Steward would not admit them today. Servants paused from the work in disbelief as the word spread through the citadel, and many had to be taken to the empty hall before they would believe it. As the family passed through the levels of the city, people turned out to behold the sight, spreading an infectious air of holiday, craftsmen forgot to pedal their wares, and housewives left bread to fall. Yet the ruling family heeded the many people who stared but little, for it seemed natural that on that day all should be as happy as they, and indeed many were. But they passed on through the city and through the Pellenor fields, which were blooming with the late summer crops and wild roses. At Boromir's insistence, they went as far as the Anduin, for he wished to play there. Finduilas as well relished the sight of the ships and the closeness of the water, and, looking over at her, Denethor felt love as sharp as an arrow pierce his heart. Her eyes seemed to be looking back over the years, and he knew they both thought of a fall day a few years before.

Between them Boromir ran about the bank, kicking and splashing, and little Faramir toddled after, imitating his brother as best he could. The splashed water glittered into shards of color in the bright light of the day, and the green trees swayed in a soft breeze. The shadow seemed to recoil and recede from the lands. Denethor looked over at his wife, and the strong light seemed almost to illuminate her, and he marked that when she laughed at her boys playing, her whole body shook with the effort. Yet she looked both happy and at peace, with a fond smile about her lips. The wheat grew golden as her hair in the fields and the sky was as brilliant blue as her eyes. The happy laughter of the boys mixed with the bird calls and the lazy hum of bees. Occasionally an iridescent dragon fly buzzed pass, or a bird would scold from her nest amid the sighing and waving green leaves.

The whole day sparkled as Denethor remembered they used to, when he was a younger man. He marveled that such a simple action should bring such good, and that for all his wisdom he was so apt to forget it. Here was a sight he had never beheld in the dark orb that lay in his turret, and a closeness that could not be obtained with mere words. Denethor felt his heart healed and he inwardly promised to Finduilas that he would restore the happiness between them, and it seemed as though she read his heart, for she laughed for sheer joy. At first she covered her face slightly, and averted her face, but her gaze fell upon Faramir, chasing after his brother across the slippery bank with stiff splayed arms and legs, looking for all the world like an upright chubby starfish; then her lovely laugh escaped, and she found herself unable to stop. At the sight of his wife helplessly laughing Denethor felt again that he possessed the kingdom of men. She collapsed into his arms, helpless with mirth, and he suddenly bent towards her and kissed her in love and passion, there on the riverbank. She returned his kiss with love of her own, denied for so long, and it seemed all things were made well between them.


	24. The House of Mirth

_I'm sorry if this diverges slightly from canon. I thought this was a plausible solution. I was in two minds about this, so if people complain I'm willing to change. Thank you so much all my faithful reviewers, so many comments are right on the money, and very helpful. They really do inspire me to stay up all night and write. So RR those who don't. I use my happy review energy instead of sleep (or so I tell myself at 5am). Faramir would write nice reviews of anything he read, you know._

What I Would Have

Chapter 24: The House of Mirth

That night and for many after, Denethor and Finduilas were again as husband and wife, and Denethor lingered over his table at breakfast, and would adjourn at midday, or take the evening to spend time with his sons. He did not require that Boromir learn any more maps, but he did carefully arrange his toy soldiers into such formations as he thought elementary to battle.

One such evening he had arranged soldiers of Gondor (tin) on a ridge (that was truly the bed clothes) to show Boromir ways of avoiding a pincer formation. Bent over the tiny painted men, he was at head level with his wife's knees, and, in a moment of inspiration, Faramir was swept from his perch in her arms and required to lead a raiding party of orcs. This added a chaotic and unplanned element to the battle, especially since the orcs move surprisingly fast and often ended up hurled at the soldier's of Gondor, still bravely arranged in their lines. Finduilas laughed until she was gasping for air at the spectacle of her grim and gray husband, patiently and repeatedly placing the Gondorian soldiers back in formation for Boromir, while reminding Faramir that while orcs had many unpleasant qualities, flight was not one of them. When Faramir skipped from the room and came back with his tattered cloth Mumakil to add to the fray, Boromir protested at the suddenness of the approach while Denethor quietly guided his hands into an archer advancement. This further subtle maneuver deprived Faramir of the aid of 'Stubby' who was made to lay down and die. Faramir, being overmatched by his sire in battle maneuvers, began to wail until Finduilas quietly assured him that his uncle Imrahil would never let his mumakil be summarily destroyed without aid from Dol Amroth, and folded her sewing so that it might serve for the ship of Imrahil. But neither Denethor nor Finduilas could get much beyond the soldier Boromir substitute for the lord of Dol Amroth, and the evening ended in laughter and disarray.

There were more quiet moments too, when Denethor would come back as Finduilas was putting the boys to bed, and he would stand in the doorway of the nursery and listen to her tales, and all knew that he was there, and yet they were afraid to say anything for many nights, lest their notice should make him turn away. One evening though, Finduilas turned slightly and suggested that he tell them a tale of his own battles, and to her surprise, Denethor agreed. Then he told a story of a raid in the desert, and the defense of a fort, and of a boy named Imrahil, and of two captains who fought as brothers for the glory of Gondor. And Finduilas was silent, for the story was happy, and changed enough so that it could suit children at bedtime, yet it was not the story she remembered. There was none of the glory she had graced it with in her girlhood letters (which she kept tied with a silk cord in a box). For some reason it sounded far more to her like a wish than a memory, as though someone were repeating a sad prophecy in her husband's voice, and she did not know why she should have such a melancholy thought. When Denethor was done he kissed both boys on the forehead and quit the room, and she knew he was waiting for her, but as she bent to kiss sleepy eyes closed, Faramir asked, "Was that what really happened, mother?"

"I think that perhaps the captains were even braver, but that was a tale to make you sleep and so must be quieter than ones intended for day."

Boromir turned in his bed and said drowsily, "it could be Faramir and I, though, couldn't it mother? One day we will go and fight for Gondor, and be friends, just like that."

Finduilas was troubled by the thought, but she tapped the end of her finger on the tip of Faramir's nose, "Listen to your brother, someday you two shall lead the armies of Gondor, just like the captains in the tale."

Faramir pulled the sheets up to his chin, but his hands closed around his mother's and he whispered, "Mother?"

"Yes sweetheart, one more question and then to sleep."

"Why was father so sad when he told that tale?"

"Father's not sad, silly." Boromir said scornfully, "He is remembering."

The surety in his voice made Finduilas smile, and Faramir seemed to put off his troubles as she tucked them in and took the candle with her from the room. She gave Miriel her nights off now as routine, and so she was quite alone and a little startled when two strong arms came from behind and clasped about her.

She turned to face him with a mock frown, "and what was that tale my Lord? For I could have sworn I heard it once before, yet differently."

"I'm sure you have heard it many different ways. It is only a tale," Denethor replied taking the candle from her and blowing it out, filling the room with moonlight.

"I thought you, in the past, less fond of our errant Thorongil" she teased.

Then in the dim light of the room she saw his face darkened like a mountain under storm clouds, and she wondered what memory had walked through his mind. In a moment though, his features became smooth again, and he nodded and kissed her brow, replying, "Come, let such things sleep in the past. We will write the future together."

He gathered her in his arms, and she let the matter rest as was his wish. Yet the past no longer seemed to reach its cold fingers into their life together, or what had happened no longer seemed as evil. He had let his mind wander in the telling of his tale, and the thought had occurred to him that Boromir would always have a captain beside him in the form of his little brother. As a companion to Boromir, Faramir would be one to spar with and fight beside, and a man who had such things was lucky indeed. He felt his heart warm toward his youngest that night, as though he finally saw great good in both his sons, for each other and for Gondor.

* * *

A few weeks later the autumn nights had grown so that a fire was necessary, and the mornings were brisk. Denethor and Finduilas decided it was high time that Boromir had a master for his lessons and men were thus recruited, a clerk and a swordmaster. It grieved both parents to lose his company in the mornings, though neither let on. Deprived of his son, Denethor now often bade his wife accompany him on morning walks, as they seemed to do her good, and Faramir of course came as well, carried easily in his father's arms. It made Denethor proud to see how much the people loved his wife, and he even took a strange pride in how sharp Faramir was, for few things escaped the boy, and he was better spoken than children twice his age. The two of them weighed nothing though, and Denethor felt as sturdy as the stones beside his wife, who weighed no more than a veil, and his bright sparrow of a son. He thought Faramir was very like his mother, and he shared her love for pretty or fantastic things: a bird out of the woods piping in a cage or a cunning elven style brooch, rather than the soldiers and smithies that Boromir had always wanted to see. Likewise, they both were quick to delight in a clever minstrel or the tumbler who performed with his small monkey - one that he had taught to juggle. Such things were a pure waste of time to Denethor, but if they made Finduilas smile, he would indulge them.

Denethor found a way to make time for his family now, and his morning reports were brought to him in the levels of the city, and he would leave his wife and son at the shop stalls while he made inspection and later reclaim them. He missed Boromir, who labored those fall hours away over his lessons, but he took great pride in his accomplishments. Often Boromir would work off his abundance of energy after dinner by showing Denethor what new skill he had learned with the sword during the day with his hardwood sword. Sometimes he dueled Denethor with futile hacks against the iron limbs of his father, and sometimes Faramir was his opponent, with Denethor standing behind him to guide his arm.

While Denethor attended to matters of state, Finduilas would repair old political ties with the ruling families, which was an easy task with two bold sons who would one day need wives. Many women were eager for her company, and if the tower held far fewer feasts than in the past, the market place fairly buzzed with intrigue, as hopeful mothers of small daughters would sidle up to stalls that the Steward's wife frequented. Finduilas no longer required the ladies to give freely of their time and estates to the common good, but many continued to do so; meanwhile they rejoiced to see her embracing, they felt, her motherhood and behaving, as Gilraen put it, "in a sensible manner." The merchants rejoiced at such a throng of business, much increased far beyond one or two eligible families by the number of housewives who followed at a courteous distance. The women would stay later to gossip about the great ladies in their midst, and often they would purchase something themselves. Her past timidity banished by the goodwill of the city, Finduilas would spend long hours dwelling over soft fabrics of white and pink, while Miriel savored the flutter of maids turned out to view the Steward's wife and Gilraen would fall back to visit with her gossips. The women would later imitate the draping of Finduilas' cloak and finger the same clothes as she while vendors smiled and rejoiced at the added business. The pretty, young family charmed the public, and the social wheels of Gondor's nobility were set in motion for a whole new generation.

The only one displeased with these new arrangements was Faramir. Used to the servants of the tower, and the shadow of his brash older brother, he was ill-equipped to deal with dozens of maids, all of whom wanted to pinch his cheeks, or tussle his hair. At times, when the clucking and currying of favor became too much for one little boy, he would slide his hand from his nurse's and, dodging between skirts, seek out his father. Then he would follow at a safe distance, ready to return to his mother if ordered or if she should miss him, yet far more interested in the mysterious conversation of his sire, who looked upon fields and walls and saw things others did not. He gathered that the business of his father and mother was similar, and that many of the same people approached each, but he preferred the men who, at worst, when he was noticed at all, would venture to tweak an ear.

Denethor, turning one day, found Faramir despondently shadowing him along the ramparts, and he motioned the boy to join him. Then Denethor carried Faramir over to the edge of the walls, where they saw the city before them and the shadow beyond, the woods in their burnished autumn colors, and the river sparkling and withdrawn in a tight band. Then he set Faramir upon the stones and bade him look out over the city saying, "I too looked over these walls when I was your age. I took thy brother here as well. For here one may behold many things: the battlements, the long years of the city's growth, and the lands beyond. So now, I will ask thee – what doest thou see?"

Faramir, unworried by the height, leaned back with utter surety into Denethor's arms. His head thrown back, he replied casually with an upside down smile. "The people, father."

* * *

The colder weather brought the family indoors, and then Denethor spent more time in council, but he did not permit messengers to seek him in his quarters when he spent time with his wife and child, for Denethor was a private man. He still appeared grim and aloof save to those who knew him well. Few knew of how great a change he had willed in himself save his wife, and she rejoiced, and resolved to maintain their newfound happiness, She would neither muse on the darkness nor harbor future misgivings. Her husband and sons were happy, and indeed the entirety of the land seemed brighter. The sad mistakes of their past did not mar their happiness, rather at times she or Denethor would smile ruefully at each other, as though all of their past occurrences were put behind them and were childish mistakes not worth the contemplating. It seemed that Manwe had heard and rewarded her resolve, and if ever a woman felt herself to hold the wealth of Valinor upon middle earth it was she. They might struggle with the shadow, but surely, the grace of the powers in the world would not fail to reward such sacrifice, and it seemed as she beheld her husband and children that this was so.

But there were many powers upon Middle Earth that had no love of men, and Sauron was of the Aisir as well as, he who had once dwelt in Valinor and brought the Kingdom of Numenor to its knees; and his chief foe was the kingdom of Gondor and her Lord. He had been denied a confrontation by the will that wielded the stone of Minas Tirith, but he longed for that battle with an ancient and undying hate. The winter began to close on the city, but the days were merry and bright, and many people sang and were glad. It was a time of new hopes, and many hopes that were to wither without a spring. A company of dwarves made plans to reclaim Moira, Eomund of Rohan wedded his childhood sweetheart, and Finduilas was expecting her third child.

* * *

Finduilas was sewing in their quarter beside her husband, who held Faramir as he read aloud by the fire. At times Denethor would intentionally make a mistake, calculated both to make Finduilas laugh and to check the attentiveness of the boy in his lap. He read from a short version of the lay of Earendil, "And thus Ulmo returned Elwing to Earendil in the form of a whale."

"Father!" cried Faramir, "t'was a swan!"

Finduilas's shoulder shook as she tried to keep from laughing, and Denethor noticed her efforts with a grin of delight until his attention was drawn again to Faramir, who ran his finger over the words.

"See father? qu.. qualo- that's a swan"

"Oh surely that says phanto. A whale son, for Ulmo is lord of the seas."

"I know that," Faramir cried in frustration, "yet look- 'Q' Qualo!" Then finally he cried out, "Mother, father will not read it right!"

Finduilas began to laugh, "be patient my sparrow, he has trouble with such tasks."

"He does not! Mother, he is teasing, and so are you."

"Nay, surely not." Denethor broke in, "your mother would never tease." Then he noticed Finduilas smiling upon them, and he saw she wished to speak with him alone. Firmly lifting Faramir to the ground, he gave him a light slap on the rear, adding, "Now… run along to Gilraen. Tell her I said you might have some apples from the buttery and visit the stables."

With a yelp of joy, Faramir was off. Finduilas watched his dark head go bobbing down the hallway, and then turned to her husband who had reclined back on the bench and was gazing at her.

"Thou art happy," he said with mock seriousness.

"Has the shadow not been driven back? " she replied with a smile, for it had become a common saying now in the city.

"It is not by my arts" he mused.

"And must all happiness come from thy arts?" She replied, but her eyes were alight.

Denethor did not mention that he feared this was a regrouping rather than a retreat. He did not wish to darken her mood or risk again ill health. Her happiness seemed fragile and ephemeral. Like light over water, it was bright yet fleeting, and when he tried to look closer at her, it passed beyond his vision. Yet as surely as the sun broke through clouds he trusted in her gentle humor, that one glance from him could bring her to radiant smiles. If she could ignore the shadow in the east, he would have it thus, and her happy and strong.

Then he looked at her closely as the thoughts crossed her face like swift clouds, for it seemed she wished to speak. His eyes followed her gaze down to the sewing in her lap as she twisted it between her fingers, suddenly shy. He looked at her face anew; truly, she was lovely as ever, yet there was more to her radiance than that. As he beheld her, he marked that she waxed brilliant with a look he well remembered. Then he knew, and shot to his feet in dismay.

But she rose as well, slowly and softly, and going to him placed an arm about his neck, and drew him into an embrace. "Nay," she replied, "do not frown so, for this is a cause for joy."

Denethor felt his heart pounding and his mouth dry with fear. But she smiled at his fears, as he had at her terror long ago when she had first beheld the Shadow. This time she was the one to smile in gentle pity and amusement, and draw him into her arms. And he was the one to feel his heart sink with despair and worry. He wrapped his arms about her and whispered hoarsely, "I cannot keep you safe in this."

"I am not in danger." She replied, still calm and tenderly amused, "Do the Valar not bless us? Should we not take this is a further sign? Have faith, my beloved."

And he lowered his dark head upon her shoulder, and breathed deeply the scent of her hair. Then he raised his head and she looked deeply in his eyes, and seeing her wounded, he took her hand and kissed it, and replied, "I will let my faith abide with you."

Then he straightened, and at her hopeful and shining features, aglow in the light, he did not believe that darkness could triumph or endure, and he let her joy become his own and he smiled upon her. Then her eyes grew bright as jewels in a a sunlit stream, and she held up the pink dress she had sewn, "a maid, I feel it."

Denethor, looking tenderly at the tiny dress replied, "Then the name is thy choosing."

"Elemmire then, to match her brothers."

"Nay, to outshine them." He replied.

"They are all my jewels," Finduilas claimed, but he saw the idea of a maid, a child never to face the terrors of battle, delighted her.

"You are my light, faelivrin." He replied, with an earnestness that still took her breath away.

_meaning – 'the sunlight on a pool in Nagathrond' – see Unfinished Tales, it was a term of endearment used for Finduilas the elvish princess by the elf lord who loved her. Elemmire means 'star jewel' or 'jewel of light' and is the name of both a star and of the elf who composed the lament for the two trees._


	25. If I give my Soul

_Wow thanks for all the great reviews. My apologies – I was mired in work. By way of brief explanation- Something I always thought to be creepy was that Saruman had visited Minas Tirith, and he was using the palantir: so when he ordered his orcs to kill 'all but the hobbits', he knew he was going to kill Boromir. Tolkien had several ringwraith accounts – but the 2nd wraith seems at this point to be in play. Although no wraith rides openly until the War, he does send them out once he finds Gollum._

What I Would Have

Chapter 25: If I give my Soul

That January there came reports of companies of Haradrim raiding Southern Ithilien, yet no one could report for certainty their numbers, for it seemed they brought with them a fell shadow of darkness, so that none would face them. Men, who had never before known weakness, fled their posts and despaired. Those who stayed their ground and fought found they faced a disorganized force, yet difficult to withstand. These new assaults were crude in planning but the Haradrim fought in a reckless way that dismayed the men of Gondor, caring for neither health, or life, or pain. The few prisoners taken spoke of an immortal lord that promised them wealth and great bounty, and that all the lands they desired should be theirs. But for every captive taken alive for questioning, there were dozens who would no longer till the earth of Gondor. And for every battle won there remained the thought of children now in bondage and misery far from the land of their birth. Yet most of the attacks were without sense, for no plunder was taken, and only burned skeletons of buildings and rotten matter in wells marked small towns and homesteads. For these outrages there would be no revenge or remedy, the men cursed their foes, but curses and tears stayed them not. For all their rage and courage the men of Gondor found their hearts failing, and all seemed doomed to wreck and sorrow. The borders' losses were heavy, and when the captains ordered retreat it lay heavy upon the hearts of the men, and they were dispirited, as Mordor had purposed.

Against these fell warriors, merciless and desperate, Denethor had few men to send, for he grudged every man, and these new warriors had dozens for every man of Gondor. In desperation, Denethor sent word to Imrahil in the South to bring the long prepared knights of Dol Amroth to battle, by landing them along the banks of the river. It was his last move before ordering an all out assault, and he knew that too would drain Gondor and expose her weakness.

* * *

There were tense days in the council chambers, and the evenings grew dark, and the shadow, so long appearing to weaken, returned all the mightier than it had been before. There came with it a murk, a dinginess in the air that assailed the city at night and in the day, and now reports daily came from all the lands of Gondor of fell beasts and brigands, seemingly purposeless, yet great in number that assailed the borders. Then Denethor awoke beside his wife, sorely tempted to use the stone of Minas Tirith. But she murmured sleepily and laid a hand across his chest. He turned in his warm bed, and kissed her and held her close to him, and though he stayed awake for most of the night, he did not leave the chamber, and gradually his desire to see his enemy faded as he listened to her soft breath in the dark beside him.

After a month of riding along the river, the men of Dol Amroth had yet to find their foe. They found the burned ruins and slaughter he left in his wake, but their foe had ever a few days lead, for the rangers tracked with heavy hearts, and none lived from the villages that fell to send for aid. Often in the scarcely populated land they would find only the sad remains of a homestead, and they found it ominous and strange that the family that lived there, long used to foes and evil seemingly despaired of life and offered little resistance.

Eventually the weeks of dim murk began to tell on the men. To ride ever in bright mail and find no foe left them bereft of purpose. That they were always a day's march from where they were needed made them doubt the directions they rode. They marched proudly before the people of the towns they entered, but Imrahil at last judged himself outmatched, and returned to make report to Minas Tirith.

The blue and silver banner flapped mournfully in the fields outside the city, where over a hundred knights were camped. And the lords debated strategy before Denethor, but their words were empty, for they had no answers, only a shameful foe that scorned battle, and Ithilien was too great a land to police without emptying a large part of the guard of Gondor, and that Denethor would not do.

* * *

Denethor frowned at the map on the table looking mockingly small before the gathered lords. The men were silent after hearing Imrahil's report, for winter was closing fast and they had the safety of their own lands to consider. "If I sent a group of rangers over hill, even as far as the cross roads, while you rode in two lines from the river, perhaps we could ensnare this fell thing."

Imrahil answered, "On this path I could lead my men, but their mounts will balk at the road, though we find no tracks. This shadow goes where we do not and preys on the weak in the absence. In this we are not enough, for I alone have rode openly towards this thing. But even as I drew nearer enough to see it and perhaps guess its nature or number, this darkness fled before me. I beheld then that none of my men could get their mounts to follow and it seemed it would lead me beyond my company, so fearing ambush I followed not."

"Let us not endeavor to fight this new evil at the very gates of Mordor without first seeing what it might be." Countered Grimbold

Denethor replied, "And yet we guess, and wait, and do nothing. Mordor I deems tries our strength, and if he thinks us unable to push back his servants let us not live in Gondor come spring. For now in the winter his orcs are more dismayed than we, as well as the southrons he uses. I think you did well Imrahil, in not meeting this fell creature, I know your guess that they seek to take Ithilien so that they may enforce Osgiliath, but to retake that city will take a greater muster than we have yet achieved." And at those words the faces of the council darkened, for their lands were not Ithilien, and the shattered ruins of a city did not seem worth many men's lives.

Denethor paused and looked about the room at the gathered lords. "Is there one among you who will ride with Imrahil, and bring a company of your own so that we might have the advantage?"

There was a heavy silence. "If we send more men Mordor will take it as a sign of war, and they are far better prepared than we," answered Hirluin.

"Verily," Denethor replied his heart growing hard within his chest. He felt the muscles tighten in his arms, the lust for battle that he had seldom felt in his youth. "Then if no one can go, I must send you back with instructions to make ready, already the first move is made, and battle will come, whether we start it or no."

With those words the council was dismissed, and Denethor walked along the walls of the city to sooth his burning heart, and with him walked Imrahil. They gazed out over the camped men of Dol Amroth, the largest company yet to visit Minas Tirith in their lifetime, and Imrahil looked out over the shadowed gloom he had been riding through and at length he spoke

"I guess as well as you that he sends man to fight man, and not all the lineage of Numenor is born of light and glory. So now he sees whether we can stop his invasion of Ithilien. Presently he thinks he will have an answer, lest he hopes that we too have been seeking to know his strength and draw out our own foe."

Denethor leaned over the wall, his eyes alight with frustration. "Indeed we face our own blood. He cruelly plays the diminished might of the west, for I have captains to send, but none to lose, and my sons are not of age. I will not yield to his trap by withdrawing any of the forces I deem necessary to maintain our lands, and now he wins this hand by sheer force, for what other resources do we have?"

"We could send to Rohan," Imrahil said doubtfully

"Their eastern territories are being overrun even as ours. They will not come." Denethor replied, thinking of the massive shipments of arms he had seen gathered in Orthanc. "They guess as we do that a greater war will soon be at hand."

Denethor looked back over the city. Children called to each other in the streets, women shopped, tradesmen were bartering. All seemed peaceful and happy; yet happy they were not. People knew dark times were ahead, they had only to cast their eyes to the East to see the blackness of doom descending. And his own lords would send no aid to their kin. Comfortable complacency had its price as well he thought bitterly.

Imrahil coughed, "forgive me, lord steward, but I have long known that look. For one who plays his defenses so meticulously you gamble with yourself far too much. Besides, your lords will never agree."

"I have two sons and heirs, and a wife to rule in my stead. Beside I take no such risk. Of any I can send I take the least risk in this, and it will be most unexpected move. But I agree, my counselors will protest if I give them the chance." Denethor replied suddenly feeling his heart relieved of a great weight.

Imrahil gave a grim laugh, "Nay lord, not to thy face. But they will mutter amongst themselves later."

Denethor smiled as well, "Let them. We leave in the morning, I will put my household arms in with your knights and we shall cross at the bridge while you ride south. We meet at the cross roads in a fortnight."

"And if you should fail in your hunt? Or they should give our lines the slip?"

"I will not fail, for it is no hunt. Nor will a battle be our aim- not yet. He wants to see if his servants can yet ride with impudence through Ithilien, once he receives his answer he will withdraw and make no further move until something again draws him out."

"You seem to know the mind of darkness all too well, I wonder if you should err."

"Not in this." Denethor replied, "and not well, for I know not what draws him out now after so long a slumber."

"But you guess?" Imrahil replied, the corner of his mouth drawing to a smile. Denethor's mind flew to the tower, and a dark orb that held his answers. Imrahil was right, he did guess. He guessed ever at their foe. But he was still in the power of his manhood, and the youthfulness of his wife's brother beside him brought fire to his heart. Part of him wanted to go to this battle very much, and he rather hoped there would be one. To be young and ride to war, to seek glory amid the darkness, these things were still alive in his memory. For all the caution and discretion of his youth, Denethor relished his role as the protector of Gondor, and even now he felt the joy in his heart of a boy, for his enemy had made a mistake, and he had spotted it. The riddle of who could ride with Imrahil was easily solved, and he now felt the satisfaction of a man who had solved a problem that long vexed him. Of all of Gondor, Denethor alone felt no fear or weariness under the shadow of Mordor.

* * *

That day Finduilas stood in the market, and her heart was not in her conversation with Miriel. Instead her eyes strayed up to the farthest wall, where captains had gathered to point and frown and talk to Denethor, who stood alone, tall and dark and still as stone, his eyes fixed on the shadow. Her brother, she saw, had lingered and they spoke long together, though to those who knew them not it would seem more as if they stood in silence, for they gave nothing away by gesture or looks. But she looked and guessed what their talk might be.

But even as she turned back toward the tower, bundled warmly against the chill, a dark cloud came from the north and the weather turned into a whirling storm. There seemed to be voices that shrieked in the wind, and the snow itself was like needles. The people who could hurried to their homes, so few saw that the dark winter day brought Saruman to the city gates. He appeared unannounced, for the watch had all but missed him in the swirling white, and he seemed as though made of the storm itself in his white cloak. The storm indeed seemed to thicken around him, and he limped slowly as the chill air pushed in through the gates around him, yet the men of Minas Tirith was courteous, for he seemed to be an old man and had often been a guest of the Steward.

He crept up through the streets, the ice whirling around him, and he set his greedy eyes upon the glowing tower above him, for his plans as yet remained undetected, and he well knew the weakness of the Steward that men thought as sturdy as their stone city. He spoke to men as he passed, and spread unease, yet he also impressed upon them that he was there to see their Lord, and men found within their hearts that it was a sensible match, for they couldn't help but think of their Steward as likewise gray and grim, and cheerlessly wise.

Denethor greeted Saruman with courtesy, but his mind was on his knights, and battle preparation, and Saruman saw this for he had marked the men outside the gates. He lingered as long as he could over their meeting, and had himself invited to dinner by pleading his age. But when Finduilas was informed of the guest her face fell and she appeared unhappy, as she had not been for a long time.

"I suppose he must." She replied to the news, biting her lip in anxiety.

Denethor looked in surprise at Finduilas, who so seldom failed in courtesy, but he understood her distaste, feeling much of it himself. He slid his arms around his wife, kissing the top of her head. Regretfully, he added the tidings he knew would trouble her.

"I must go for a little while." he murmured to the top of her head, feeling her stiffen in his arms.

"Whence to?" she replied, trying to drive dismay from her features. She succeeded, but her smile trembled.

"I must see to Ithilien, for no more than a fortnight," he said softly, then he caressed her cheek, "do not speak of this matter, not tonight or tomorrow, or at all if you can. Do not especially let slip a word of where I have gone, for we ride forth in secret. Have no fear, for this is a safer move than many would deem." He saw her relax then and he lightly rested a hand on her belly. "Keep well what I leave in your keeping, all that is and all that will be."

She turned her head in unhappiness, "was there no one else to send? Not one of our lords would go?"

"Only one of our lords could go." Denethor corrected, "Imrahil will ride out with me, soon, very soon, so I tell thee now."

She nodded in agreement, adding wryly, "So I have my brother's recklessness to blame?"

Denethor, anxious that she not be overly unhappy or distressed, kissed her cheek, "He is becoming the scourge of the county." He watched a small smile twitch across her lips. And drew her gaze to his, speaking softly an earnestly, "I will return soon to thee. I will be safe." Then with a smile he added, "don't let the boys eat too many sweets."

Then she managed a smile for his sake, "it is you who do that." But she saw that he spoke of them with an effort. His eyes were far away, and his mind on battle and war. "It is as you say," she finished, for they both knew he would go, "only for a little while. And you are now delayed only by our guest I deem."

Denethor looked out the window. "I could not leave until the evening regrdless. But much can be gained through words and council, and often not what another would yield by purpose. Let him come to dinner, for a man at ease may say things others would not let slip."

"See Boromir!" Finduilas said to her son, "a steward's work is never done, not even at dinner time."

Denethor smiled at Boromir who made a face as he was struggling manfully over a crumbling tome of history. Finduilas relaxed, the bad news would be born, and she resolved to make the best of it. The maid entered the room, and Denethor withdrew, as he always did around those not of his kin, but he took Finduilas lightly by the hand, "why don't you send the boys to sup, that you may spend some time now with your brother?" And there was a message behind that statement, and Finduilas understood that she might not have another chance to see Imrahil for a long time.

Faramir and Boromir went with Gilraen to an early dinner in their quarters, while Denethor went to his study to quietly go over the maps of Ithilien. He would be traveling quickly before dawn, as would Imrahil, and he wanted to make sure that nothing was amiss before he set out. He also knew that dinner would be taken up with Saruman, but if the old wizard had come to delve for information he would not find it freely given.


	26. The Gift of Men

_My sincere apologies for the gap in writing, my house burned down. We got everyone out except two pets, and nothing worse than minor burns and smoke inhalation befell the human occupants. To reaffirm my dedication to finishing this, I did think at the time that I would now have more material for the end. I write you now from my new house/ life etc. Thanks so much to those who R&R it was hard to lose so many things, but writing reminds you that nothing in your mind can be lost, at least once you write it down ;). Thanks Rugi, scented hairpin, and everyone else who reminded me to get back to this. By the way I don't have betas (neither the fish nor the people) so if anyone sees an error please tell me._

What I would have

Chapter 26: The Gift of Men

Finduilas sat with Imrahil by the merry fire in her room. As the sun set, filling the room with golden light, they talked of nothing. The time passed swiftly with a million small cares and joys that had nothing to do with the dark shadow that crept across the sky, nor the frostbitten weariness that had settled on Imrahil's features over the past few months. Then a servant announced the call to dinner, and they needed to speak no words of parting, for she guessed now what her husband and brother had planned, and a broad wink from him confirmed it in the merriest and gentlest way. Then Imrahil gallantly bowed and gathered her arm under his to escort her to dinner, and she felt her heart quiet in the now acceptable role of matron. But seeing her complacency, Imrahil leaned on her as they approached the doorway to the hall, so that if he did not have her arm tucked in his she would have fallen, and half dragging her, half propping her up, he whispered, "Little sister, when will you gain some sense of deportment?" She gave his arm a sharp pinch in reply before smiling a welcome to her guest.

Despite the merry beginning, the dinner dragged, for the words of Saruman were like dams across the conversation, the happy flood of thoughts crashed against them and drowned, and all had trouble speaking but found themselves listening to his voice. Soon after the standing silence, he settled into his chair with the same exaggerated motions of ownership that befits a beggar at his usual corner. Then he began in a piteous tone to complain about the bad weather, adding, "It must be terrible to have these towers but to see no father from them then what might be before your eyes." This complaint went along with his tales of mud-swollen creeks, but Finduilas imagined Saruman managed these words with a pointed look at Denethor. "I'm afraid I have little news, though with the rumors I am glad that I saw no foe upon the road."

This brought a worry for all assembled. The spiced wine seemed chill on Finduilas' lips, and even Imrahil face bore a shadow of doubt. Thoughts flew about the table: perhaps a small oversight on the road would delay a company patrol, or a stray brigand lay in wait for travelers, or some other ill that might cause untold woe for their lands crept past an unvigilant watch. The plates sat untouched, as all seemed lost in their thoughts. Finally, Imrahil laid down his knife with a sigh, and casting a look at his sister's pensive face was determined to bring levity back to her features.

"Is Orthanc then besieged, or fails Rohan in their watch?" asked Imrahil his voice sounded light, but in truth even his strong young heart was faltering.

Saruman frowned, for he had reckoned this meeting without Imrahil's presence, and he found none of those of the blood of Westernesse or the mixed heritage of the land of Amroth to be easily cowed. Yet he bent his will to sound kindly and paternal, and replied, "My young lord of Gondor truly has elvish heritage to be so long in sight; but you, I deem, have not traveled to Rohan before, where men are more like to their childhood before the elder days, and perhaps not so vigilant as the powers of the West."

This flattery, with a strange emphasis on heritage hit its mark and rankled in Denethor, bringing to mind a captain he would much have preferred sending to chase the shades of Morder through winter snows. Yet despite the inward doubt of his heart, he had noted the reference to the unknown perils, and the odd comment lamenting the lack vision. He now felt a certain satisfaction, for he guessed Saruman's game. In his pride of besting the wizard, he ignored his baser and more open insinuations, and it was perilous, for hidden or not, they scurried about the corners of Denethor's mind, to return later to gnaw at his will when he found himself in darkness. But that evening Denethor asked with a quiet smile that told nothing, "Are you a student of Elven lore like your kinsman Mithrandir?"

And Saruman seemed insulted by the implied kinship and replied somewhat haughtily, "No, I must confess I am more interested in the works of man, though I led the White Council that we formed after the retreat of Sauron." In his voice was the majesty of authority and the austerity of time. It was a quiet but overwhelming power, like an inherited title passed down through the centuries. Underneath it, these words carried the terrible tally of wasted lives, soldier's tombs from forgotten wars.

But Denethor was not one to be subdued or overawed in his own hall, and asked rather pointedly, "Indeed, and is the White Council planning to reconvene now that Sauron has plainly returned?"

Saruman's face curled into a snarl, "Sauron is mighty among the powers, he is of the Maiar, beyond the power of elves, let alone of men." Then the room seemed to darken and it seemed night indeed had come, it would be better perhaps, to yield what land they could to Sauron and hope he would be satisfied in their lifetimes, to fight against one so mighty was like ordering back the night, a foolish vanity. The doubt grew, well laid plans trembled on the brink.

"Isildur proved otherwise." This last sally came rather unexpectedly from Finduilas, but she shook with a distant memory of terror, and the words sounded hollow.

"Yes," replied Saruman, "at great sacrifice, I hope indeed no such disaster and loss will be required in our time." And at his words Finduilas felt her heart treble but it did not yield, for her husband and brother were beside her.

"It seems that despite the awesome powers of such beings, men have a wonderous ability to confound them, no matter how great their… gifts." Denethor added to Finduilas' reply.

And this hit its mark, for Saruman grew livid with rage and his eyes sparked hate, for he alone knew the doubt that gnawed his heart, that for all their mortal frailty, men often were found with gifts surpassing all but the mightiest, and their indomitable will was not the least of these. Saruman had tried to work the seeing stone of Orthanc by his own will and without right, and he found it did not obey him. "Truly, steward of Gondor, the race of Numenor should not forget the power of Sauron. Lore in Gondor has diminished, if we think now we may openly gather against him as was done in the past"

Denethor smiled in a predatory manner, feeling very close to a victory, "The lore in Gondor has indeed diminished, I must ask you then for something I have long pondered. For of all the kindreds, only man never lived in Valinor, nor learned from the Vala their arts. Is that why men alone are so unfathomable, and powerful when compared to aught else? You yourself kindly keep our tower for us. Do you think, or have you heard tell in your studies, that even in the undying lands there is such strength?"

This last reply put Saruman on level with the servants, a steward or lore master, and Denethor thought it would rankle, and perhaps repay his guest for his rudeness at table. But something as dark and ill-shapen as the center of a storm moved inside of Saruman, and he replied with a smile as cold as winter, "and what need have they for such strength, who die not?"

That statement was delivered quietly, and all who heard it were silenced. Each felt the chill of the grave upon them, the mists of the tombs seemed upon each face. Denethor found his thoughts sinking into memories of his father, old beyond is strength and pride, slowly dying, and now it seemed in ignominy and pain. Soberly, Imrahil thought upon the watery grave of Adrahil, unknown and unmarked, and therefore soon to be unremembered. Only Finduilas shook off the spell first, for to her it was an old terror, many times faced, and familiarity had removed its sting. Besides, against the fear of death she measured the sharp pains and pride of birth, and a new life stirred within her.

"A race apart we may be, yet the Valar remember us in our need, and lend us strength. Surely they need and desire such things for our part, since they need it not for themselves."

Saruman inclined his head politely, for he indeed knew the truth behind those words more than she did, though he had long parted ways with the Valar's purpose. Then he smiled and changed the topic, allowing the light to filter into the room once more, so that Imrahil was able to fill in the conversation with his sister over small topics. But Saruman felt Denethor's eyes upon him, and he knew he had underestimated his foe, for men take strength in the presence of each other, but he remembered this lesson, and placed it in a cruel corner of his heart.

* * *

After the meal all parted with courteous and empty words, and Denethor repeated his welcome to Saruman while implying he was even more welcome to leave, and Saruman smirked and gave no indication of his will. Imrahil walked his sister back to her rooms, and met with Denethor his bedroom, quickly shutting the door behind, both men listening closely for servants or footfalls in the hall.

"What say you now?" Whispered Imrahil, "For you have an unexpected guest, and I think he works us ill in this."

Denethor looked into the fire his lips thin and jaw set, "And yet he is the enemy of our enemy."

"I do not trust him." Imrahil replied.

"Nor do I, nor will I," Denethor sighed. "Let us not forget the lord of Lossarnach is here. I will leave papers placing him as regent. Finduilas is wise, and I can trust her to manage the city in my absence."

Imrahil paused. "It is all rather unlike you, brother."

Denethor looked up at the seldom-used title. "It is completely unlike me in action, which is the point. I am not afraid to make a bold move at risk to myself, is that is what you imply."

Then Imrahil remembered a younger captain who had looked so coldly upon the face of death. He suddenly felt angry at Denethor for being so sure, and so constantly unmoved, "You are taking a mighty risk with others than yourself."

"Who then as substitute? I alone possess…" and then Denethor paused, for this vanity was clear to him, but he also knew it was no idle boast. His wrath had awoken, most of all at himself, for he doubted his own choice now, and he could ill abide the questioning of his brother-in-law.

And Imrahil bowed his head, "Yes, you alone. Though for glory or grief I know not, but let us not speak of such things longer, I will meet you in the dark of morning at the stables," and he bowed and departed.

* * *

Denethor slipped through the door into his common room, and beyond that to his wife's chamber. She had a piece of sewing in her lap, though it plainly did not occupy her, and she calmly placed it aside when he entered. Denethor looked suddenly awkward in the doorway, and she thought he was going to again stress the need for secrecy and was worried about her reaction. To her surprise he crossed the room quickly and gathered her into his arms. Wrapped in his solid embrace, she felt his heart pounding with strange urgency and, confused, she looked up into his eyes.

"If you need me to stay," Denethor whispered, "I will."

Her eyes grew bright at the words, but the very fact that he had made the offer compelled her to reject it. She replied with a steadiness in her voice that she did not feel. "I will no longer seek to stand in the way of you acting as you see fit, for I trust the Valar to look over you. I am no longer a girl. I am capable, with the aid of our captains, of guarding the city for your return."

"I did not suggest otherwise," he said with a smile into her hair, "but I would stay if you asked."

"And I would not ask that for the world. If you think this is called for, I would not question your judgment."

"I could have Imrahil stay," he suggested without quite knowing why. For it seemed to Denethor that his rebellious heart was trying to leave his will entirely. It was not cowardice, yet he wished now with all his might that she might entreat him as old, she alone could offer him a reprieve from the expedition that since dinner had lain like ice over his heart.

"Then I should be ill with worry for you." She teased, inwardly wondering if he was testing her will or his own.

"Your condition," he began, but she stopped his words with a kiss.

"Is not yet advanced," she said with a small smile.

"Whence comes this new resolve?" he asked, slightly irritated now that after so many years she suddenly seemed undisturbed by imminent battle and danger, especially now he wished her to be.

And she did not say, 'from the peace my resolve gives you,' but rather smiled and replied, "It is not resolve at all, but the prudence perhaps, of motherhood. The sooner you go the sooner back."

Denethor released her from his arms but kissed her hand, and pressed it to his cheek, "I will return shortly. You are wise and fair, and it makes it the harder to leave." And he lay beside her to take what rest they could before he needed to rise, but his heart was disquieted.

* * *

It seemed but moments later that Finduilas awoke in a dark room. Denethor had quit the bed, and was putting on his boots. With her eyes shut she watched him lace his armor, hearing his breath as he lifted the breastplate, the smooth sound of his mail settling. The tiny sound, like soft rain, of the metal as he adjusted his leather shirt beneath it. The hollow sound of his helm as he took it under his arm awoke her fully, she listened for a pause, a sigh, something to let her know that she should open her eyes for one last look. Feet began to move, and it seemed to her that time was slowed. She opened her eyes and saw the lights flicker about his shadow, and the chamber door open, and she watched him gently close it. She knew now that his thoughts were on his duty, and she heard each every movement with a greedy ear. He did not hesitate, every movement was quiet but direct, purposeful, and soon, too soon, he had left. Then she pulled the covers about her, feeling them already bereft of his warmth, and felt her eyes grow hot with tears. And inwardly she chided herself, for she must appear as if nothing was amiss in the morn, and red eyes would be commented on. How she wished something might recall him, if he could only forget an item or an instruction that would bring him back for but one more precious moment. And even as she entertained those wishes she knew that he had now made it into the hallway, and that he was gone.

But she was mistaken about Denethor, for it had been indeed long since he had ridden to battle, and with an older man's eyes he now looked about his home, and the sober thought of the risk he incurred. His heart had grown weak, he realized with surprise, for he had forgotten what it was like to leave behind loved ones to the caprices of fate, and go to face whatever must be. Either he had grown soft with peace, or he had never felt the burden of parting until now. His heart lay behind him in his quarters and his mind strayed there as well, rather than resolutely moving to the operation ahead. He paused in the hallway, and then softly as a ranger he stole down the hall. He placed a quieting hand on the door, so that the hinges should not creak, and made his way into Boromir's little chamber.

* * *

Boromir lay sleeping, still in his day clothes, an obvious rebellion towards his nurse, a tiny revenge for the early bedtime demanded by the company dinner. Denethor looked about the room. The wooden practice sword and shield properly placed in the corner with as much care as if they were real. The toy soldiers had already gained the dusty look of items no longer used. A manual of arms lay on the desk, a heavy and well-thumbed soldier's tome on a child's desk. And yet Boromir looked almost an infant in sleep, his cheeks round and soft, his features still fair and unmarked, his sleep deep and untroubled. The battle calloused hand of his father traced the peach soft skin, settled over the small shoulder, giving it a small shake.

"Boromir."

The features frowned, the boy grunted in his sleep. Denethor shook a little harder, dropping his whisper into more normal speech.

"Boromir!"

The eyes flew open, but the sound died on his lips at a gesture from his father. Denethor watched with approval as the sleep left his son's eyes, they rapidly grew bright and watchful. He made as though to rise from the bed, but Denethor placed a hand over his chest.

"Nay, do not rise, but I need you to awaken, and mark my words very carefully."

Boromir nodded.

"You are awake?" Denethor asked

The dark head, barely visible in the night, nodded again. The moon caught in his grey eyes, sparkling twin pools that sought his father's.

"I am leaving for a while. No one is to know that I am gone, if it can be helped, for as long as possible."

"I will remember," Boromir said, a slight frown, a look of disappointment, crossed his features. He perhaps, Denethor reflected fondly, he had been hoping that a dragon was assailing the city, and that his father needed his aid. "Peace, there is more."

Boromir was silent and still, eyes suddenly hopeful again.

For caution's sake, Denethor slipped into Westron speech, "I have engaged two messengers: one for thy mother and one for thee especial, of the Tower Guard, but regardless of the message I have a task for thee."

Boromir looked rapt at the unusual caution and urgency, "Yes, father."

"I return in no more than two month's time, or if the second month passes from now, or if you should hear before then ill news, I need thee to heed my instructions immediately."

Boromir nodded, a sober shadow crossing his features.

"Thou art to go to Furlong. He is kin through my sister's marriage and from afar. Thy mother I will send word to separate, and her actions will depend on whether… on when thy uncle returns."

"Can't I…" Boromir began, his features aglow at the mention of his gift bearing, exciting, young uncle, a far more welcome presence than either of his severe aunts, whom he saw infrequently.

"No!" Denethor whispered as vehemently as he could. "No. Under no circumstance do you tarry longer than the tiding or the second month. You leave that day for Lossarnach, stay not to make farewells, nor to take anything. Furlong will know why. Under no circumstances stay you in the same house as thy mother and brother. Never do you stay in the same house, until I return, or you are of age to claim the stewardship."

Boromir's lip trembled, "but that will be…"

"Might be," Denethor corrected, slipping back into common speech, "only if the worst mishap should occur will these things come to pass, and then those years will pass swiftly, I promise. Now heed me well, it is for her sake I tell you this, as well as your own."

Boromir nodded.

Denethor though he knew not why, felt a premonition of danger pass over him. He was quite in earnest when he held his son's eye, "Obey me in this, promise."

"I promise, father."

Denethor smiled, "Don't worry, this is precaution merely, I will be back soon."

Boromir suddenly sat upright, "Father," he whispered, "take me with you!" Then immediately he flushed and regretted the words. They seemed so childish, when he wanted nothing more than to be a soldier in his father's eyes.

Denethor though, knew exactly where those words had their birth. A young man eager for adventure, a boy eager for feats of manhood, but still a boy. He shook his head, "take care of your mother, and do as I bid." Then, on impulse, he clasped Boromir by the shoulder and kissed his brow as was the custom of knights. "Hail and farewell Boromir, remember my words."

And he left the room directly, walking swiftly lest he be late to meet with Imrahil, and Boromir snuggled back under his covers, his heart aglow, for his father rode to battle, to win glory for Gondor, and he had treated Boromir as a soldier and a man.


	27. The Mouth of the Wolf

_Apologies, thanks for the reviews and demands for more. Although maybe you wont like me much once you read it!_

What I would have

Chapter 27: The Mouth of the Wolf

Denethor led his mount off the makeshift plank raft and onto the thin layer of river ice that hid the ford. The horse immediately broke through with a forefoot and neighed in fright. Denethor grabbed the bridle and pulled him forward, urging him up the icy bank. The ice groaned, spitting up biting cold water. Behind him, he heard his men similarly wrestling with unwilling mounts. Finally, all had gained the bank, and he swung into the saddle, leading the men through the gray mist into the woods of Northern Ithilien.

No bird song broke the quiet of the winter forests, and they saw no tracks of animals between the barren trees. The river sent a cold and cheerless mist after them, and as the day wore on it was replaced by a freezing snowstorm. Silently behind Denethor rode the small company of tower guards. Many had served under him since he was a youth, and they had the cold faith of men who had fought through fear and despair, each a tried warrior. Grimly they rode through the blowing snow and through the black and barren trees. The winter's ice seemed to hold everything as still as stone, and the snow over it muted even their horses' hooves. They moved as shades: voiceless and pathless, for the shifting snow in the winds behind them erased their tracks. It was dreary, and small flakes of snow and shards of ice were constantly flung into their stinging eyes. As the day wore on, and they passed further east, the air seemed brownish. They traveled by memory alone through the woods, for the wind shifted constantly, yet ever seemed mainly from the east. At times, it blew so strong that they had to dismount and lead their horses through the howling and trembling woods; but they went forward as one, and would not be deterred in their errand, and they traveled until the darkness deepened, and the unseen sun had set.

The weather seldom improved over the next few weeks. The streams were buried and the ways that they traveled were treacherous since Denethor kept them off the roads. He went to the secluded valleys, and all the barren places where he kept no men at outposts. At times, buried under cold dirt and snow, he would find signs of an enemy camp, once the fires were only a day old, and sometimes they found animals or men dressed in foreign costume who had succumbed to the weather and been left by their fellows. They spent miserable days in the freezing cold until they risked their horses and finally themselves. The cold and swirling mud grey world receded from them and blurred behind, all alike and all alike empty. And so the first month passed, and their provision wore thin, their mounts gaunt.

Denethor sought his foe and found him not, and the days grew more evil. The small houses they passed were destroyed to the foundation, and more terribly, the corpses now began to bear marks of scavenging, whole parts removed cleanly, with knives. Yet they rode on, and not a man spoke a whisper against the will of his lord, but their swords and courage could not lift the shadow nor the dreariness in their hearts, and it seemed the enemy knew this, and often the wind seemed to shriek almost with mad laughter.

* * *

Saruman left the main hall and entered his guest quarters, here in the city where insignificant men of little lineage and power still defied Sauron. The thought bit into him as he tried to sleep behind the gleaming white walls of Minas Tirith. Perhaps he too might have held out for longer, and for more. And yet he felt determined that Sauron's attention be diverted from his own quest for the ring. The world was sunk into a confusion of chaos, and none yet knew their place on the board, though all the pieces had begun to move. He gazed into the darkness; he knew that Denethor was short on men; the talk of marauders in the kingdom had found its mark, perhaps a little more tempting would suffice before he risked the encounter in the orb of Minas Tirith. Saruman assumed that he had not triumphed this first night, but he resolved to stay until he had needled his prey sufficiently. Nothing would stay the wrath and greed of Sauron like another gift, and entry into Minas Tirith and the heart of its ruler was a great gift indeed. Sauron would be placated, and he himself could hunt for the ring unimpeded, while the dark tower wrestled with the white.

The next day the storm was worse, and, of course, it would be a discourtesy to ask a guest to leave. As the days wore on, Saruman's pleasure at the storm soon shifted to astonishment and wrath, for the lord was absent from the hall. Saruman wondered if he was being avoided, or if he had urged too strongly, and the lord had ridden to inspect his roads himself. But if that were the case he left behind his house unguarded, and Saruman would not squander foolishly a chance to salve his wounded pride with additional malice. It was all the better if Denethor had decided to secure the road to Rohan, for Saruman already had many Dunland brigands along those paths. Yet there was none to tell him for sure if the lord were absent or not, and Saruman risked exposure of his policies with too many questions. Already the serving maids gave him queer glances, and the guards at the doors to the hall would not speak to any, save to exchange shifts. He would be patient and cautious. He wandered the halls seeking one he remembered, for if Denethor were not about he was sure to find Finduilas. As he rounded a corner, he encountered little Faramir, a short distance from the steward's quarters, moving a toy boat along gleaming stones.

Faramir frowned in concentration for the river pilot, imagining unknown dangers of shoals and rocks that his uncle had explained to him. Making water noises, he pushed the ship forward as he crawled after it down the length of the hall. The toy ship turned swiftly around a bend on the river Anduin. His small lips whispered orders and a finger pushed the rudder sharply to the side. He was so absorbed in his play that he heard no one approach until a large boot came down next to his boat. He looked up from the floor at an old man robed in white, or so he seemed, bent over him.

"And who might you be?" Saruman asked, with the mock smile of an adult who feels the need to humor a child not particularly liked.

"Faramir, son of Denethor Steward." He whispered, slowly reaching for his boat while scrambling up to his knees.

The boot suddenly was upon the little ship, the toes pressed down on the stern. Faramir stared in fascination as the painted wood began to bulge and creak, a mere breath away from his fingers, he slowly pulled back his hand and looked up at the man bent over him. The old face drawn into a hideous smile, large teeth gleaming, "You have the very look of your father, tell me, are these your quarters? Is your father within?"

The questions had a terrible tone of mockery, a nasty laugh that children are too innocent to understand. But those clear grey eyes looked up at burning dark ones, and Faramir had the same insight that he often had with people, he could tell this man was lying, but he did not know what about. The urge to be courteous, stressed by both father and mother, was strong in him, but this man loomed to little Faramir like a dragon. But he also knew, as a new chick will freeze under the hawk's shadow, that only his slightness had protected him from a terrible foe, and that here he was desperately overmatched. At that thought his wits returned, and he did what seemed best to him, he turned and ran down the hall, seeking refuge in a linen closet, mourning his lost boat as he heard it break.

The knocking upon the door, soft but insistent, caused Finduilas to put aside her evening knitting, Boromir, bent over his book, looked up as well. It was clearly that of a strange man, for it was heavy, and the maids or the nurses would have opened the door before announcing their presence. Finduilas felt her heart freeze, for what message could be brought at such an hour? But she drew her shawl about her to warm her blood, and managed a small smile for courtesy's sake as she opened the door.

At the sight of Saruman she strove to keep the smile on her face. Relief and displeasure rose inside of her. But he bowed and she inclined her head by way of greeting.

"My lady." He attempted to move forward into the quarters, "I wondered if you would be so kind as to speak with me."

"My Lord of Orthanc, of course, I trust you have not lost your way?" Finduilas replied, placing a slender hand across the doorway.

"Nay, I am more at home now, but I thought to pay you a call and thank you for your kindness... ere I depart" At the words, soothed by the thought of him leaving, she stepped back and he entered. He walked slowly across towards the fire, like a tired old man, and he saw Boromir seated there with displeasure, for he had hoped to find Finduilas alone.

"And is this your little boy? How he has grown!" Boromir was quite, and his eyes sought his mother's. He remembered this man, and his child's heart remembered the unhappiness that followed his last visit.

At Boromir's silence, Saruman's brows came down and his smile curled at the edges until it looked like a wolfish snarl. Yet, the words he spoke sounded fair, as though a kindly lord was indulging the whims of a favored child. "Well, we certainly don't have our father's manner do we? And where is my Lord Denethor? For I wished to see him as well."

Finduilas looked at Boromir's eyes, suddenly feverishly bright, and her heart cried out to not let this man know her husband's whereabouts. "I'm afraid my husband is very busy, you must ask one of his men to arrange a meeting. You see he is not here." She replied, striving to keep her voice cheerful.

"I couldn't find him anywhere, it is very odd" Finduilas shuddered slightly. Once again, her distaste for the old man faded as she remembered the orcs and foes her husband had gone to face. Denethor's actions did now seem risky to her. "Do you think he is perhaps outside the city?"

Finduilas remembered the peril Denethor was in, and it seemed that Saruman, though unlovely, was wise, and he might aid them if he found her husband in time. She was on the verge of speaking when a warm arm slipped around her waist, and Boromir's dark head nested under her arm.

"Father hates to be disturbed when he is studying." He said brightly "He only meets with men in the great hall."

At his words Saruman seemed to start, and Finduilas suddenly remembered her dislike for the man who at the moment had the audacity to glare at her child.

"So, he has a voice does he? What a charming boy!" exclaimed Saruman in a tone that seemed to imply Boromir was the worst beggar's brat that had ever crawled from a ditch. But this last salvo missed its mark, for Finduilas was far too enraptured with her husband and sons to ever find a fault in them, and Boromir, as full of confidence as any ten year old, glared right back. He lacked his brother's insight into the hearts of men, but he knew an enemy, and he was no coward. He was not as glib as his father though, and unable to think of a response of the magnitude and subtlety required, he stuck out his tongue at the wizard.

The effect was instantaneous. In truth he could have given no better response, for the sheer temerity of the act, the degradation of a being insulted by a mortal child, brought Saruman up short. Fury rose in his eyes, and his disguises fell away. Then behind his face there moved a fire, as of something formless that but takes the face of men, a being of smoke perhaps, in which people see what they fancy. Behind that shimmering exterior, fluid and obscured by a fury that hurt the eyes, there was something more, something beyond the power of shield or swords, beyond the might of men, as though a storm cloud had been given form, yet retained its aloof power. Then Finduilas was indeed terrified, for he glared with venomous eyes at her child. Boromir, though, was still undaunted, in fact he was somewhat fascinated by the hideous sight before him. It was exactly like a tale of the dark lord, and he felt quite grown up playing the part of knight to defend his mother. Finduilas, though, knew better than to let the moment drag on. Like a bird protecting her young before a serpent, she now sought to distract, and she spoke low and swiftly.

"I have given the servants their lunch hour so I must ask you to show yourself out, my lord."

As she spoke she moved with fluid motion and placed a hand on the wizard's arm. For one moment, she felt her hand sink into the flesh, as though he had no body. Her breath caught with terror, but then he moved and withdrew.

"Of course, dear lady. I am glad to see you again, and how well your children look. They grow up so quickly." At this, he sent a dart of his eye at Boromir. For one moment there seemed as though a light had come from Saruman, like an opening in a reek where the flames are for a moment visible, but Boromir looked straight back into those flames, and his heart failed him not. For greater than fear of pain and death (which troubles boys little in their innocence) he also felt great glory, that something so powerful should direct itself at him, a boy that was seldom indulged by even a glance from the knights of the realm. So powerful a foe touched his vanity, and in that sense, he was very much the son of Denethor. In the burning light Boromir became great indeed, the lines in his face older, the light in his eyes grim and fey. And Saruman hated Boromir in that hour, when he had come so close to a victory only to have it confounded by a boy, and he never forgot that hatred, though his revenge was long delayed. Finduilas could not have withstood the Istari forever, and without her son's intervention, all would have been lost.

Yet Saruman had more than one string in his web, and his quick eyes had told him many things. Denethor was gone from the city. He had overplayed his hand this time, for he had not had the opportunity to meet with the headstrong lord alone. But if Denethor's family were to prove such a nuisance then he would rid himself of this problem as well. He turned at the door and spoke in a deeper voice than they had yet heard; "I must bid you farewell lady, I'm sorry to find you with so little time." His words cut through her, and she felt within her a terrible pain. Saruman, bowing, made a swift exit. He stalked through the halls of the tower and out into the city like a cold wind. The storm rose with a howl and yelp to greet him, and he rode off into the whirling darkness even as he had come. He hoped now to catch Denethor upon the road, and he spurred his horse cruelly across the plains before the city. Few men saw him leave, but the guards shuddered in their cloaks, and were glad that he had not stopped to speak with them.

Finduilas meanwhile swayed like a young tree in a storm. Boromir saw her face turn gray, and she drew a hand to her cheek, but she bade him leave and go to bed. A strange sternness about her lips quelled his protests, and he bowed and left obediently, half hoping to catch another glimpse of the wizard in the hall, yet anxious too about his father. Finduilas managed to behave as though little were wrong as she sent Boromir to his quarters, but once she was alone she sank against the mantle place, and watched the marble stones flicker orange from the fire and gradually pool red with blood.

* * *

Miriel was in fine form; she had the evening off to spend with a certain young knight of the second tower guards, if he were to be found. She hummed a tune from Dol Amroth as she walked the hall, but a tiny snivel halted her steps. She opened the door to a small linen closet to find Faramir, sitting on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees. The small tear stained face looked up at her from between the towels. A flash of irritation crossed her features as she thought of his nurse, who should have put the boy to bed hours ago, down in the kitchens with her gossips. She held out a hand, "Come then, that's no place for a lord of Gondor."

Faramir, slowly came out, drawing a damp sleeve across his face. "I lost my ship." He whispered.

"Did you? Well, tomorrow you may look for it, now 'tis high time for bed. First we'll wash that face." She lifted him into her arms, "Come duck, water always helps."

Back in his own little nursery chamber, she poured him water from the pitcher. Her cheerful but hurried mood reassured Faramir, who always knew her to be a fine barometer of the moods in the house. She placed a warm cloth over his face, and he gradually began to relax. "There now," she said, as his tear streaks vanished and grey eyes lit up once more. "Now off into your night shift and to bed with you."

"I want to say goodnight to mother." Faramir replied.

He slipped from between her arms and trotted off towards the parlor in search of his goodnight kiss. Miriel, looking at the water stains upon her clean dress, sighed in resignation and decided to check on Boromir. She found him in his room, looking at a map of Ithilien by candlelight. "No candles in bed Boromir," she chided snuffing the yellow flame. "I'll wager you didn't find time to wash behind your ears whilst you were looking at that map" she continued, glancing at the bone-dry washbasin. "I'm not a baby," retorted Boromir.

"Go to, men wash without being told." Miriel replied.

"When I'm a soldier I won't need to." Boromir declared, secretly glad to be distracted from the map and his worries. He stood up on the bed so that he was taller than Miriel. "Is that so?" Miriel answered catching the ends of his sleeves and pulling off his shirt.

"I'm going to be a soldier really soon, and go where there are no nurses and maids." Boromir cried, muffled by the shirt bunched over his head.

"Quite likely, and no cook making pudding either." Miriel replied as she folded the shirt, using it to swat his bottom as he leaped down onto the floor.

"I shall order some brought to me in the field. You may bring it." Boromir laughed with the tone of one granting a great favor.

"That will be a long wait, for I'll be married to my jolly knight and busy making pudding for my own son - who will not be half so bad as thee."

"Nay," said Boromir as he splashed his face and quickly reached for the towel, "you will be my scullery maid yet, for Sir Thalion is foolish but not blind."

Then Miriel caught him by the ear, and furiously scrubbed while Boromir yelped in play. "I'll wash thy mouth next, saucy lad." Boromir ducked past her and leaped laughing onto his bed. But as she drew near the door she saw Boromir's face changed, eyes growing so wide that they shone in the dark, his mouth drawn into a look of horror. Mireil turned to see Faramir, trembling, his clothes and face smeared with blood.

* * *

After several cold weeks Denethor finally received reports, one messenger followed closely by another. The trail had gone cold, but the company itself had been spotted, making their way past the crossroads, making their way to Osgiliath, the empty city. Over a month had passed since they rode forth to face the enemy. Imrahil drew his men up from the south, and they met in the dark woods.

It was nighttime when the two companies met, and despite almost a hundred armed knights and soldiers of Gondor there was scarcely a sound in the clearing. The captains pulled their mounts in close, their cloaks pulled by the biting wind. Imrahil cast a baleful glance into the blackness, "they have fled East instead of towards the river, thus we have lost them. Alas! For many grievous deeds lie upon that path."

Denethor paused to cast a glance over at his men. All armored, and thanks to the rangers that kept this outpost, fed. They were weary and cold, but to turn back would be worse, for it would wound the very hearts of his men. For too many nights and days had they walked upon a trail of blood and terror, unable to do more than curse the hours that made them too late to avenge.

Following his glance Imrahil murmured, "To ride into the city is to welcome ambush"

"And yet that very move would be unforeseen," Denethor replied. He cast his eyes up at the cold sky above. "The black company flees because it now faces the only force that has sought it out. To go back now would be to play into the expectations of the shadow." Denethor dug his heels into his mount, "ride on" the words cut through the dark, and the company rode as one along the empty road to Osgiliath.

They encountered no ambush along the way, and here beyond the borders of recent generations there were no sacked towns or burned houses. There were only the sad ruins of an occasional ancestral farmhouse. Brown weeds grew up and strangled the road. The ancient highway was paved with frost and glittered cold. Their mount's hooves beat as loud as drums upon the packed earth, but they encountered no force, only wind and snow. At last the ruined city seemed to gather like a thundercloud in the dark world before them.

Man and horse alike grew silent as they neared the crumbled gates. Denethor felt a wave of familiarity wash over him. It was Minas Tirith in his nightmares, the stones toppled, the supports burned. The statues were mutilated and broken, mute testimony of long past violence. The gates were thrown down and the walls broken as though pulled back by great arms, and they rode into the city through a gaping hole. The city was just as silent as the surrounding land. Occasionally, a remnant of former life lay terrible before them, no longer used, strangely overlooked by marauding orcs or the men of darkness: an old overturned churn, the metal of a burned horse cart lay out in the dim light. No one spoke of the objects, so simple as to come from any of their homes; or who might once had used them, remarkable now only once all other things had passed. They lay down every path in those hateful ruins but no man mentioned them. Like an obscenity, they felt such ominous reminders better ignored.

Then as they rode empty streets, mournfully moaning with snow, there came the echo of iron-shod hoofbeats. Denethor lifted a hand in warning, and the men halted. Slowly they led their horses down the street, pausing at every crumbled doorway and fragmentary wall. Slowly they crept down the paths, their flesh waiting for the bite of the enemy arrow, their limbs taut with anticipation. But Denethor held them to so slow a pace they were almost statues themselves. Slowly he tracked the sound into what was once the palace courtyard. But the palace stood silent and grey, whatever horrors it knew it offered no answer to them. The doors looked as though they had never opened. An open window slowly creaked in the wind, then slammed shut with a snap that made all, both man and horse, jump; but beyond that there was nothing. Denethor approached the door, his heart beating loudly in his ears. Whatever terrors lay beyond, his heart now beat heavily, as though warning him of a great evil just beyond his reach, nearing now, drawing nearer.


	28. Heart of Stone

_Thank you all for still reading, and reviewing! (yes I read them all – like the addict I am) I'm still writing, but work is work. _

What I would have

Ch 29: Heart of Stone

In Minas Tirith the storm grew worse, shaking shuttered windows and blowing in cold currents across the floors. Gilraen and Erendis gathered the soiled linens as a sleepy eyed chambermaid scrubbed the stones in the Steward's quarters. There came another subdued cry from the bedroom. Gilraen paused with a sigh. Behind her the bedroom door opened, Miriel came out with red eyes, adding more crimson stained sheets to a growing pile in a basket. "Poor duck, and him not to be found. Yet even were he is here, he's always so stern and fey." She turned to the other women, "are the boys taken care of?"

"Aye," replied Gilraen with a nod to a soiled bedshirt in the pile. Miriel sighed again, "I'd best go change then, I'll not be needing this dress for a while."

The two nursemaids clucked sympathetically and sorted in silence until she had left. Gilraen glanced at the bedroom door and spoke in a quite voice, "I'm glad I'm not married to a lord."

"Still, there are harder ways to earn one's keep." Erendis put in, "though some women are born to breed children and others hardly to the task. My own mother had five and barely laid down for the birthing."

"Aye, my mother had six and it near killed her. And her a strong country woman too, but my lady has always been delicate, and he should have known that err he married her."

"Men are not likely to think of what's at stake, only what they want." Erendis returned, though her ears were sharp lest she be overheard.

Gilraen shook her head critically, "We'll have to burn these, and the mattress too I don't doubt. I dare say t'was a fair miracle the last time with Faramir."

"Twill be a miracle now if she is not lost to us, though I heard the master healer say it was only a maid, for small mercies." Erendis replied. Then Miriel returned with two more women from the healing houses, and there was no more time for idle speech.

In Boromir's room the two boys sat listening, and waiting, still numb from the shock. Miriel's cries and the suddenness with which their private quarters had filled with various people had robbed them of any need for sleep. Doors slammed and muffled cries reached their ears, as though some one were being murdered, but under a pillow. Terribly faint, the cries of their mother, and then there were no more cries. Shortly after Gilraen had arrived to strip, scrub, and redress Faramir in the same distracted manner that cook fixed the birds for roasting. Faramir had been quietly crying, but he now seemed to have slipped into a frozen silence. He sat unmoving on Boromir's bed, his gaze fixed unseeing at the door. His breathing came in little gasps, his hair damp and skin pale. Before his wide eyes was his mother's pale face and dress soaked in blood. His paralyzed and rigid figure shook with the terrible foresight of Numenor, the secrets of the future that spoke of sorrow and loss and death. A dreadful burden pressed upon him, the knowledge that he could not save her.

Boromir placed his arm awkwardly around his little brother. He had heard the frightened shrieks of the woman fade to clucking, scolding and the savage tempers of the servants that always appeared when they feared for themselves. He had been told to go to bed, but he could not sleep with the constant running feet and whisperings mere feet from his chamber door. Eventually Faramir, though he had yet to utter a word, turned and buried his face into his chest. "Stop crying," he murmured, "it will be alright."

He felt Faramir's mouth move against his shoulder, "No," he sobbed, "it won't."

Then Faramir cried in earnest and Boromir wanted to howl himself, only such an action seemed unmanly. Eventually Faramir slept, curled beside him, his lashes wet and cheeks tear stained. Boromir sat back in the still and suddenly too close room with a sigh. The fire sparked fitfully, casting shadows that danced and shifted restlessly across the bed. Boromir was not tired; he disliked the waiting, the lack of action, and the uncertainty. His father had not planned for this outcome. He alone knew of his father's plans and, with the responsibility, he now felt the burden of decision. It grated against the world of soft linens and scolding nurses. He longed for someone to hit, to rage against, and instead he was stuck caring for his baby brother, surrounded by women who would tell him nothing, though they were as helpless as he was. He lay raging in the dark, fists clenched.

* * *

Denethor gave a nod to one of his knights and the man threw his shoulder against the ancient wood. The door broke inwards and the whole company passed swiftly into the ruined hall. The first knight stumbled on something soft and went down. The room was dark as midnight, and it took a strangely long time for the dim light to make its way inside. Under their feet, the hard floor was uneven and slippery, cloth slipped beneath their boots, and a nauseating odor rose to meet them.

Denethor, as usual, was first to recover his senses. Metal glittered in the dark, and he ducked his head inches from a dart that struck the wood beside him. Then there was a rush and the shrieking high-pitched wail of the Haradrim. A score of men, lined on either side of the hall, rushed upon them. He brought his sword through the neck of a man before him and turned in time to push a man past the exposed back of the knight beside him. An arrow grazed his helmet and deflected. The men of Gondor had now gained the room, and they ran between the columns on either side. The ambush was now itself trapped between double lines of sharp swords.

Then Denethor saw a dark shape move at the far end of the hall. It looked like the shadow of a mighty knight; yet, no knight stood to give it form. As Denethor watched in fascinated horror it began to move back and forth, its head shaking slightly, the dark shadows around it bending and reaching like craven slaves. It slunk down into a side hall and Denethor ran in pursuit, yet even as it disappeared before him he suddenly dizzy. His feet stumbled and tripped. He lurched forward, and gained the passageway at the end of the hall. There the figure appeared again and it again began to shake, and to move back and forth. He heard as though from far off, bitter and empty laughter. He watched as the thing shambled at the end of the hall, and realized it moved as though dancing in glee. Even as he moved forward to pursue it the figure seemed to lengthen and fade and stretch into the shadows themselves. Denethor burst into the next room, heedless of any ambush, but he found the room empty. A cold blue light stole through the window slits. Snow traced its way across the stones like sand, trackless. His foe had escaped, and it had been no man.

Denethor's heart was pounding; his stomach was in his throat. He longed to sit, to rest. He grasped for the wall beside him. It had been no living thing he pursued. For the first time he came to face to face with a claw of the very hand of Mordor. Familiar since childhood, and yet he never before had beheld such a thing with his own eyes. His vision cleared and he grew steady on his feet again. He had pursued a shadow of death itself. Behind him, faintly, he heard Imrahil call. He weighed his secret and decided to keep it. He returned to the hall.

There he saw his knights had gathered, and were silently looking about them. With a sinking heart, he now looked to the floor. There were the slain bodies of the enemy, dressed as the corpses they had found before, their fresh blood steaming in the cold. However, the floor was not the pale stone of the ruined tower. Beneath his feet was the frozen and twisted body of a woman, hands still raised to ward a blow. All about them were men, women, and children, frozen rigid as they had fallen under the merciless swords. Many of them had been savaged, but despite their blue lips and hacked forms they still looked terribly alive, faces distorted in terror, hands held in mute pleas. Denethor raised his eyes from the scene to the gathered knights.

"Why here?" one murmured.

"Doubtless they fled that accursed band and later the storm; they were cut off from the river." Imrahil replied shortly.

One by one, the men removed helms, looking over the slaughter in disbelief.

"Tis half of Ithilien," one young knight muttered, moving swiftly with distaste as he saw that he trod upon a small corpse.

"That's why we could track them, they have simply been herding the villagers, driving them from their homes."

"It would not take many men," Imrahil mused, "these are all peasants, untrained and unarmed."

"Unguarded and entirely unprepared." Denethor spat in disgust.

Imrahil watched out of the corner of his eye as the brief rage passed from Denethor's face like light on polished stone. The features returned to calm and resolve, constant and cold. Some of the knights had begun to move, automatically lifting the rigid bodies, laying them in rows. Their clothes had frozen to their forms though, making it impossibly to cover their faces. As they made their way among the sad remains many of the men began to weep, and one man kicked the corpse of one of their foes in rage.

"Make ready to ride." The single wretched command fell cross the hall. The men looked up at Denethor, grim and black as the wraith they had pursued, and on many faces now faint smiles of revenge flickered, eyeteeth were bared. Only a few of the men cast a despairing final glance at the dead. They filed out, and mounted, ready to ride into the very heart of Mordor itself.

Imrahil stood for a moment in silence, watching Denethor closely, for he knew no plans were ever simple with Denethor, nor were his plans ever swayed by desire or pity.

Denethor looked quickly over the corpses, many showed signs of travel, but in such weather, none could have lived more than a fortnight's journey. "We will send men back to watch the roads, take a sortie south, to catch any stragglers. It is plain this is not the full force of our enemy, they have dispersed, no doubt to do further mischief."

"And it's just as plain their leader has gone on the road to… the East," even Imrahil disliked to say that name, "We must make haste if we are to stop him."

Denethor gave a slight shake of his head, beneath his rage and horror he felt the familiar satisfaction. The month of uncertainty had passed; his foe's plans were again clear to him. "We already have. He has had to disperse his men. He goes back to gather reinforcements, perhaps other orders."

Imrahil exploded, "But if he escapes now he will…"

"He will return." Denethor finished. "He will return, and we will be waiting."

Imrahil sputtered in anger, "Is that it then? No justice, nor revenge?" He gestured to the corpses, "and to know we will see this again? Imrahil paced in frustration while Denethor stood grim and silent. "He will return and do this again, or worse, and you ask me to send my men back. My knights are ready for this battle. They need this battle."

"They are afraid." Denethor said quietly, letting a slight trace of contempt enter his voice.

"I am afraid!" Imrahil shouted, "I fear to lose them, to this horrid…" Imrahil paused. "How many empty villages will we find ere we return to the river, and I send them back, unavenged, with no words for themselves or the survivors, but that they must prepare to face all this" – he gestured to the mangled corpses – anew?"

Denethor watched Imrahil speak, but he himself felt somehow absent, as though he were fading away. The corpses ceased to disturb him, rather it seemed that even the dismay of those around him was fading as though in a dream. His features grew hard, his face expressionless. "They must arm themselves, we must strengthen our defenses, what will come shall be worse."

"At some point, if you flog a beast long enough, it will simply halt and die." Imrahil stated flatly.

"The people of Gondor are not beasts. If they wish to be men at all they must master their own wills." Denethor replied

"Not everyone has the will that you possess, my dread lord. They cannot help but feel this blow in their hearts. My men are weakened with almost a half-year of this darkness. To go back is now harder than for them to go on, let us seek out this battle, so all is not a total loss. I must think of my men, for too long they have suffered in pursuit of this demon. You will break their hearts."

"No. We will go back. Their hearts are not as important now as their bodies." Denethor replied.

Imrahil paused and his temper cooled. He looked across the corpses. "Know then what dreadful thing you ask of them. Many of the knights in your company are from Ithilien, for them this is a blood debt. They have kin among the dead. Do not ask them to turn their backs on this fight."

Denethor looked towards the east, into the blackness, angered. "I am fully aware of the men in my ranks. If they ride now for the sake of kin then others must die. One man's family or pride is of no account." He sighed, irritated with Imrahil for wasting time, for not being rational; yet Imrahil was right, if his heart was not behind the orders he gave his men, then they would cease to obey, and all would be lost. He continued in a quieter tone, "This display was intended to spur us onward. We do not have the strength for that assault. We will save who we can, if we move swiftly. The men will follow."

Imrahil looked once more at the scene.

Denethor looked at his clenching features, the tears unshed in his eyes, lips pressed tightly together.

"I shall give the order," he began to walk to the courtyard and said at the doorway. "And they will follow."

* * *

Boromir awoke with a start. Erendis was in his room filling a pitcher.

"'Tis a new day my lord, your breakfast his waiting" she said briskly.

Boromir looked at the hastily prepared gruel with distaste. Rubbing his hand over his eyes, he saw the sun had already risen.

"Where is Miriel?" He asked.

"Very busy," Erendis answered shortly.

"I wish to see mother." He replied, watching her closely. Her hands paused as she laid out his clothes, then quickly resumed their task.

"Eat your breakfast," she replied with a smile that did not extend beyond her lips, she quickly left the room.

Boromir dressed, feeling deserted. Faramir, he noted, was already up. He began an empty, anxious day. Healers passed gravely, and maids whispered, occasionally sneaking glances at him. Their private quarters filled with skirts and whispers. They were told to 'stay out of the way' but both Boromir and Faramir realized the women had little to do themselves, and there was nowhere for the boys to go. Finduilas was not to be disturbed. Boromir retreated to a corner and sat biting his lip in agitation. His father had warned him of dangers, but not to his lovely mother. He stole a glance at Faramir, the night's sorrows and strangeness seemed to have left him oddly untouched, and he sat with a picture book in the corner, a slight smile about his lips. Boromir sighed and fidgeted, attracting the attention of Gilraen as she hurried by with a pile of linens.

"Behave yourself," she said with hardly a glance. Her worried face not bothering to smile.

Miriel hurried past soon after with a bed warmer. Servants carried steaming pots. Boromir felt like he was roasting. He pulled at his shirt collar and thought of going out, but a storm was howling at the windows. Cook sent up apple dumplings with cream at noon. Boromir slipped his to Faramir, who had an appetite, and soon became both sticky and covered with crumbs. Boromir waited until Faramir had gone to take his nap before slipping on his winter cloak. He was trying to slip out of the room unnoticed when the doors opened wide, letting in a gush of cold from the hallway. It felt like a draught of cool water after the day of stale, hot air; but the women began to squawk and protest until they saw the figures in the doorway.

Tall, dark and imposing, two tower knights in silver and sable stood taking in the room. They wore cloaks and bright helms. Orderly, purposeful and stern, they stood in sharp contrast to the fluttering room. The women shrank back, but the bright eyes sought out Boromir. He felt his shoulders straighten under the gaze. One of the knights held out a gauntlet covered hand, his bright mail flashing. Boromir took that hand gladly.

Before he had time to think, he was already in the hall, trotting to keep up with the long legs of the knights. He was led through the courtyard at the same pace. As they left the outer courtyard he felt one of the knights throw his cloak about him, drawing the hood over his head. The black folds came over his eyes, obscuring his view. He smelled the stables before he saw them, then he was picked up by strong arms and placed into a saddle. In his heart, he felt great joy, to be doing something, anything, other than waiting in the stifling room. The horses were anxious and willing. He realized with a thrill that they were leaving through the back mountain gates, past the silent street. They filled the seldom-used path with the steady ring of hooves. Into the sharp and dazzling air, he rode out with the company of knights, into unknown and adventure. He was out of the city before he realized he had not bid his mother or brother farewell. He did not look back.

* * *

The road back was long for Denethor's company. They no longer rode in secret, for they traveled from one slaughter to another, and haste was needed. The clouds lifted, as though their fury was spent, and the cold sun shown down remorselessly on an emptied country. Visible now without the swirling snow were signs of desperate flight, abandoned possessions, footprints, and the occasional corpse; all left behind, unmourned, by those who so fatefully fled either towards fear and the river, or towards the safety of the ruins and death. Some of the men wept openly, for the dead they had seen and those they knew would follow. Denethor's thoughts strayed now to another ride he had taken in the past, one of doubt and shame, when he thought he knew pain and sorrow, but how much smaller those concerns seemed now. He wondered as he rode if someday these horrors would pale in the face of future scenes. With each rolling and heavy gallop of his steed he felt himself grown different, stronger, as though he were no longer a man. His knights seemed so frail and human, the horse beneath him quivering and exhausted. The road, though beaten through the centuries remained, the houses they passed had outstood the occupants. He felt more kinship with the battlements than the men who walked them. More dreadful than the shadow of Mordor itself, for had not the shadow fled before him?

They reached the river road, and he had begun to divide the men to secure Northern Ithilien and support his rangers when a shout announced the approach of riders. There appeared two sets of riders. Messengers of the rangers, clad in green quietly giving their report to his captain, and the unexpected sable of Minas Tirith. The dark clad men in sharp contrast to the white frost clad world around them.

"My lord," His captain rode to him quickly, "our scouts report, there is another column attacking the south."

Denethor frowned to see the emblem of the white tree. The men of the royal guards dismounted but despite having ridden to Ithilien, they seemed not at all eager to deliver their tidings.

"My lord," One of the messengers bowed, "your wife…" he swallowed and lapsed into silence.

"She sends?" Denethor asked in astonished disbelief, he could not imagine Finduilas ever putting herself before his duty, or asking him to. He remembered the resigned smile with which they had parted, he had never seen her so confident and strong

"Nay, my lord, the nurse does, your wife is… ill." The man finished his eyes turning down to the road as though it were of great interest.

A murmur ran through the men behind him. Denethor felt Imrahil's eyes upon him. Panic now flowed through him, freezing as an icy stream, settling as a pain about his heart. Behind Imrahil the men whom he had denied bloodlust sat in silence, their horses stamped and chomped their bits. Every man had his eyes upon their lord.

The messenger saw a slight widening of Denethor's eyes, an emotion that flickered there darkly, like movement under ice.

"She does very poorly my lord," he murmured, hoping to push the advantage, for he had been dispatched to bring his lord home

The words were misspent though, and at the softness, Denethor withdrew and hardened again into his usually stony gaze.

"And how is my presence to remedy that? I am no healer." he replied angry at his voice for deepening slightly. Irritated, he dismissed the messengers. He turned to face his captains again. Calmly he gave his orders. He felt the fear that had washed over him fade to nothing, leaving him cold, but numb. He could do nothing at home; he was needed here.

Then he looked into the outraged face of Imrahil, dark with blood and rage. But the moment of panic had passed, Denethor had mastered himself, he met Imrahil's eye dispassionately.

"Your house, it seems, might require your presence, my lord." Imrahil said acidly, his voice high with rage.

Denethor looked at the young man before him, thinking of his earlier passionate appeals. Imrahil had dark pits under his eyes.

"I had already planned for any... mishaps. The city is safe." He saw Imrahil swallow. The men were silent. "Return then," Denethor replied wearily, "yet take but few of your men. I have need of them."

He rode south without further speech, pursuing the scattered foes of Morder. The taint of death lay all around the land, but they drove its scattered agents before them. The marauding groups now fled in disorder, and they drove them as they had driven the hapless villagers before. With stony and grim assault, they dispatched them quickly upon the very banks of the river. Denethor hadn't lost a single man of his company, for without their captain the enemy was a wild and ragged band. Like monstrous children they each fought only for themselves, cried out upon the blades or sank in sullen silence. The first rush broke upon the disciplined and methodical swords of Gondor.

Finally, the land was cleared, but Denethor did not rush his return. They needed to be prepared for further assault. His knights began to draw their discipline from their lord, they now set to fortifying what positions remained automatically, and they searched houses quickly, without exclamation or shock. Denethor oversaw the digging of too many shallow graves, friend and foe alike beneath earth as hard as stone. Most of the peasants had eyes frozen open, aware, watchful, but never again able to weep. Denethor felt as though he were one of them, unable to look away, to change what was or would be. Only to watch the terrible battle between himself and the shadow unfold, across his country and his heart. He tried to feel pity for the slain but instead he found weariness. When he shut his eyes to think of his family, he only saw the pale corpses. He received no new messages from Minas Tirith, but he feared to return, lest his heart be as frozen there as on the hateful road. He stayed at his duties as long as he could, wishing himself home, but fearing his own dark shadow.

* * *

Finduilas rose through a wave of darkness into the conscious light of her room. She was burning with thirst; freezing with cold. She dreamed of pain and Faramir crying. Someone held a cup to her lips with a bitter draught inside, but she could no longer remember how to drink and felt the chilling liquid roll down her chin. After a while, she was aware of someone clasping her hand. She felt tears fall upon her face, but she felt no comfort in this, for tears meant Denethor was not yet returned and she was weary with waiting.


End file.
